


This Unavoidable Thing Between Us

by emynn (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Flashbacks, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Romance, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 03:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by memories of the war, Harry has spent the past twenty years hiding from the Wizarding world. But when he's convinced against his better judgment to help the Ministry commemorate the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, he is forced to confront both the ghosts of his past and the man who abandoned him when he needed him the most – Severus Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Unavoidable Thing Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Snarry-a-Thon fest at the journals. My prompt was "When the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts approaches, Harry and Severus are both asked to be on the committee planning the commemoration. They engaged in a secret relationship years before, but broke it off. What happens when they have to work together again?" Warnings for depictions of mental illness, a brief mention of prostitution (not Severus or Harry), and mention of implied Severus/OMCs. Title comes from the [Evermore song by the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5K7-GZOIhk). The quote about writing Harry references in the first scene comes from [Cory Doctorow](http://www.locusmag.com/Perspectives/2014/01/cory-doctorow-cheap-writing-tricks/).

_The pressure of a first line._

It was an anxiety Harry Potter was all too familiar with. The phrase that would set the tone for the entirety of the story, setting the reader up for their (hopefully) emotional journey through the pages. A person in a place with a problem, he’d heard it described once, all neatly set up for the reader at the very beginning. The proper first line establishes the mood, gives a peek of what’s ahead, sets the entire story into motion.

In short, the introduction can make or break the entire work.

And yet, here Harry was, at what he knew would be the starting point in the tale of one of his characters, and he didn’t have the foggiest how he felt about it.

_What a sodding disaster._

Quietly, cautiously, he opened the door and stepped inside the entrance hall of Hogwarts. It had been nearly two decades years since he’d been here last. Then, the school had been glistening, nearly sparkling with the renovations that had come following the end of the war. It had been bursting with a nearly manic energy – _recover, renew, move on, move ahead._ It seemed quieter now, as though it had finally settled back into itself, at peace.

Harry’s heart was pounding so loudly he was surprised he didn’t hear it echo in the halls.

But he’d agreed to come here, and he wasn’t about to back down now. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, he moved quickly towards the staffroom. A few students scurrying past cast him curious looks, but quickly moved on. Harry supposed it made sense; as far as he knew, the press hadn’t managed to obtain a recent photograph of himself in nearly a decade, and with his longer hair that now easily covered his scar, he wasn’t as readily recognisable as The Chosen One.

"Do you think I give a damn what you think? You weren’t even a wish in your father’s scrotum when the war was going on."

Harry froze. There was no mistaking that voice. Not even after all these years. _Fuck_ , he should have realised Severus would be here. He glanced at his watch. There was still time. He could run out now, make his excuses –

"Harry! I’m sorry I’m late. I was in a meeting that just wouldn’t end." Hermione swept Harry into her arms, holding him tight.

"Because you wouldn’t stop talking, right?" Harry teased.

"Well, it was clear nobody understood the importance of the matter," Hermione said. She gave Harry one final squeeze before releasing him. "Shall we?"

"Hermione, wait," Harry said, grabbing her arm. "Severus is in there."

Her smile dimmed. "I know. Are you going to be okay?"

"You knew? And you didn’t tell me?"

"I didn’t think it would – "

"Hermione."

"Fine," she sighed. "I didn’t tell you. But I’d do anything to get you out of Connemara these days. And you seemed interested in the commemoration…"

"Interested!" Harry exclaimed. "I said I wasn’t sure I could handle it, even after twenty years."

" _But_ that it might be worth it to be on the committee just to ensure they didn’t make a travesty of the event."

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Hermione, you know – "

"Harry! Hermione! I thought I heard your voices. Won’t you come in?"

Casting one final glare at Hermione, Harry followed Percy Weasley into the staffroom.

As soon as they entered, Harry’s eyes immediately darted towards Severus. Severus, of course, did nothing to acknowledge Harry’s presence, only continued to scowl ahead, one hand impatiently tapping on the table.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

"Come on," Hermione whispered, taking Harry by the elbow. "Let’s take a seat."

"We’re just waiting for Headmistress McGonagall to arrive, and then we can begin," Percy said. "Have the two of you met our Head Boy and Head Girl before? Mr Maxwell Vederian and Miss Eliza Flowers are here to offer a student perspective on the project."

Severus snorted. Unable to help himself, Harry turned his head towards him, but Severus was still determinedly looking anywhere other than at Harry.

"I apologise for the delay," McGonagall said, sweeping into the room and taking a seat next to Severus. "I had to bring Patil to the infirmary."

Percy nodded. "Very well. Let’s begin."

They started with what Harry already knew: the Ministry wished to plan a special event to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and thus had assembled a small committee to oversee the task. They had just under five months to plan the –

"Ball, naturally," Percy said. "It will be held in the Great Hall, with roughly 300 in attendance. Harry, I believe I speak on behalf of everybody when I say you should give the keynote speech."

Ignoring Severus’ snort, Harry shook his head. "A ball? You’re not serious."

"Well, of course," Percy said. "It seems an appropriate way to mark such a historic occasion, does it not?"

"Appropriate is not the word I’d use," Harry muttered.

"I assure you it would be tasteful," Percy said. "We’re not talking about a Yule Ball with the Weird Sisters. This will be a dignified event, a chance for reflection."

"Right, reflecting on the 100-Galleon-a-head plates you charge the guests," Harry said.

"All proceeds would go to charity," Percy said, his face flushing.

"A charity of the Ministry’s choosing?" Harry scoffed. "Right. I’m sure that’s the best use of money."

"Harry, Kingsley’s the Minister now," Hermione reminded him gently. "He wouldn’t allow the money to be donated to some frivolous charity."

"That doesn’t negate the fact that people _died_ , Hermione," Harry said. "People with their whole lives ahead of them were slaughtered here, and they want to hold a party and _dance_ at the same place where their corpses were laid out to count. It’s disgusting."

"While I understand your point, Potter," McGonagall said, "we must also remember that many people _lived_ , yourself included. The dead would not want us to languish in our grief for two decades. The best way to honour the deceased, I believe, is to live the life they would have wanted."

Not wasting time to dwell on McGonagall’s last statement, Harry shook his head. "It just feels so shallow. They deserve more than this. Be honest: at a ball, how much time are people really going to spend remembering the reason why they’re all there? Once the speeches are made, it’ll just be another evening of overpriced champagne and little snails on toothpicks for them."

"I agree," Hermione said. "Something more needs to be done."

"We need to have a ball," Percy said.

"Why, is the wine already ordered?" Severus asked dryly.

"And the invitations have already been print – wait." Percy turned to look at Severus. "Don’t tell me you agree with Harry!"

"Of course not," Severus said. "I simply detest balls, and given how this is ostensibly to be partially in my honour as one who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, I feel I should have a say."

Percy sighed. "Fine. While we do need to have the ball, I’m amenable to doing something additional as well. What are your ideas? Please keep in mind that today is January the ninth, which gives us less than five months to plan anything. Flowers, please take notes."

_January the ninth._

Harry swallowed, feeling the blood pound in his ears. Fuck, it had definitely been a mistake to come back. It may have been seventeen years ago, but he could still remember it like it was yesterday, and it still hurt just as badly. Perhaps even more, now that he could see that Severus clearly didn’t give a damn.

And why should he? Normal people didn’t hold onto relationships that died nearly two decades ago. And they certainly didn’t expect to return to find their ex-lover holding a torch for them, especially not when the last words he’d said had been –

"What do you think, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "Sorry, Percy, would you mind repeating that?"

Hermione squeezed his hand under the table, and Harry took it gratefully.

A person in a place with a problem.

Oh yes, he had all of those elements now.

And, unfortunately, this story was just beginning.

* * *

"Is broccoli all right for you, Harry?" Hermione called out from the kitchen.

"Sure," Harry said, and turned back to Ron. "So, work going okay?"

"Yeah, I guess," Ron said. "It does just wear on you after a while, you know? I’ll admit, sometimes I do wonder if you had the right idea quitting the Academy."

Harry said nothing. A week ago he might have indulged Ron with a joking response, but now, so soon after seeing Severus and being assailed with memories of that past life where he briefly honestly thought he could be an Auror, it simply stung too much. Instead he turned his attention to the bookshelves, glancing over them before he found a familiar title. _A Hope Replaced._

"But I reckon I have to do something to keep myself busy," Ron continued, nodding towards the book in Harry’s hands. "I doubt I have any hidden talents tucked away I could use to make a living."

Harry grinned. "I’m sure you could write if you wanted to."

"Yeah, I don’t think so, mate," Ron said. "I struggle writing down Floo messages. But you? You definitely have a gift."

"You’re one to talk," Harry said. "I have to say, this book doesn’t even look like it’s been touched."

Ron had the good grace to appear slightly embarrassed. "Hermione read it. She always keeps the books in pristine condition."

"But you?"

"I tried, Harry, honestly," Ron said. "It’s just… they’re all rather depressing, aren’t they? And I can’t help but think of you when I read them, and that… it’s just hard to read."

Harry nodded. He couldn’t really fault Ron for that. He would be the first to admit he drew a great deal of inspiration for his characters and stories from his own life, and given the state of things… well, his novels weren’t exactly light-hearted beach reads.

"Well, you’re in luck," Harry said. "Turns out this one may be my last one."

"Really?" Ron asked. "Finally retiring at the ripe old age of 37? Or, should I say, is Cathair Duffy retiring?"

"May not have a choice in the matter," Harry said. "Angela – that’s my editor – is rather peeved with me. She seems to think all my stories are starting to sound the same. You know, a discouraged loner trying and failing to make sense of it all."

"Can’t you just give the next one a happy ending?" Ron asked. "That should be enough of a surprise for anyone."

"If only it were that easy," Harry said. "I sent her the first seven chapters of the manuscript I’m currently working on, and she wants a major rewrite. I need to prove I’m able to go in a ‘new direction,’ or, well, I’ll definitely be going in a new direction."

Ron grimaced. "Rotten luck."

Hermione called them in for supper, for which Harry was very grateful. In the grand scheme of things, his problems with his editor were the least of his concerns, but it certainly wasn’t helping his mood.

"No Hugo tonight?" Harry asked, digging into his roast chicken.

"He spends every Tuesday at the Burrow," Hermione explained. "We could stop by later, if you’d like."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry said. They wouldn’t, and they all knew it. The Burrow hadn’t felt like home to Harry for a very long time.

"So, how did the meeting go?" Ron asked.

"Very productive," Hermione said. "Harry came up with a fantastic idea."

"Yeah? Not surprised."

Harry snorted. "I don’t know why it’s so ingenious. It should have been an obvious solution for anybody who took more than five minutes to think about what to do."

"So, a ball then?" Ron asked with a smirk.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Apparently we can’t escape the ball. Everybody loves a ball. The ball is set in stone. But we _can_ take actual legitimate steps to remember the victims, as well."

"Instead of holding one ball, we’re going to plan a series of events to honour the victims," Hermione said. "The money raised during them will all go towards various charities and causes that carry some sort of meaning. We still need to determine exactly which ones, but a large donation will definitely be made to The British Werewolf Society."

Ron nodded. "What kind of events are we talking about?"

"Well, unfortunately we don’t have time to plan an individual event for each of the victims," Hermione said, although Harry could tell she was filing the idea away for the 50th anniversary. "But we will have one a month, culminating in the ball on May the fifth, the first being a Valentine’s Day dance, held in Lavender Brown’s memory, for the students."

"A _what_?" Ron exclaimed. "I’ll need to have a talk with Rosie."

"You’ll have no such thing," Hermione said firmly. "She will go with her friends and have a wonderful time. Now, in March we will host a concert that will be open to the public."

"Tonks?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded. He could still picture Tonks in her Weird Sisters t-shirts, dancing around the room, knocking over coat racks and chairs, as she belted out off-key melodies. "We’ll have to do some work to find some acts, but hopefully some singers will be enthusiastic."

"Sounds like more fun than a Valentine’s Day dance," Ron said. He paused. "How about April?"

Hermione took Ron’s hand. "A student fun day on April the first," she said quietly. "We were going to ask George if he’d like to plan it."

Ron nodded tightly. "Then the ball in May?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"As well as a wand-lit tribute on the second," Harry said. "And the students want to work on painting a mural, to be unveiled in May as well."

"Well, then," Ron said, his expression slowly returning to a more cheerful one. "Sounds like the two of you will be pretty busy the next couple of months." He leaned back in his chair, resting his head in his hands. "This is why I never sign up for committees."

"No, but you did marry somebody who signs up for nearly all of them," Hermione pointed out. "You’ll be getting your hands dirty, too."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I should have known."

"Mmhmm." Hermione took a sip of water. "You know, Harry, you’ll be spending a great deal of time here over the next few months. If you’d like, you’re welcome to stay in our guestroom. It would be easier than travelling back and forth all the time."

Her tone was casual, but it was clear from the absolute stillness in the room that she and Ron had carefully planned this conversation. It wasn’t a new topic of conversation; the two of them had made no secret that they weren’t comfortable with Harry living all on his own in the isolated hills of Connemara, although they had voiced their concerns far less frequently over the years.

"Thanks," Harry said. "But I don’t think that’s a good idea."

The usual excuses were pursed on his lips – he loved the peacefulness of his cottage, he needed time to work on his next novel, he was so accustomed to living alone that he’d make a terrible housemate – but then Ron, as usual, cut to the heart of the matter.

"Snape?" he asked, apparently ignoring the dirty look Hermione was shooting him. He was less oblivious, however, to her kick under the table, and he let out a yelp.

"Well, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant surprise to see him today," Harry said. "Especially not when I have _friends_ who could have warned me."

"Sorry, mate," Ron said. "I wanted to, but Hermione didn’t think you’d agree to be on the committee if you knew."

"And don’t you think that’s a decision I should have been able to make on my own?"

"It’s good to see you out, Harry," Ron said, his voice quiet. "We worry about you."

Harry sighed and removed his glasses, running a hand over his face. "I know. And I appreciate that you care so much. But when I’m here… everything hurts. It physically hurts me. I thought maybe with time it would go away, but it feels just as overwhelming now as it did back when I was seventeen."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. "I’m so sorry. I should have thought it out more. I truly didn’t realise it would still be this hard for you."

"It’s okay," Harry said, awkwardly patting her hand. He reached for his glasses and shoved them back on his face. "I certainly didn’t know. How were you supposed to?"

"Still…"

"Is there pudding?" Harry interrupted. He needed to end this discussion now. And then he needed to go home.

Hermione nodded and returned to her seat. "Of course. How about some chocolate cake?"

Harry forced a smile on his face. "Sounds great."

* * *

Harry stumbled out of his Floo, immediately exhaling in relief as his vision focused on his living room. Despite the fact that he made his living using words, he always struggled to find the right ones to describe just how critical this cottage was to his wellbeing. Certainly, it was small and admittedly rather dated, with wood panelling covering nearly every wall on the ground floor. But Harry could see the rugged peaks of the Twelve Pins from every window in the back of the house, and then step out the front door and be nearly on the bay. How many mornings had he taken his tea on the front step and watched the seals and otters playing in the water? The nearest town, a fishing village, was four miles away, close enough to go if absolutely necessary but far enough away that he wasn’t constantly barraged with people passing by.

It was a quiet life. But while Harry had been alone for nearly twenty years, he didn’t truly feel lonely. Of course, there had been a time, back when he’d first moved here, when his heart was still raw and aching. Then the isolation had been a necessary evil, to ensure he didn’t do something positively idiotic like beg Severus to tell him what went wrong and to please take him back.

But no. Over the years, Harry’s need for companionship had faded. He’d briefly had a pet, a rather scruffy border collie who’d shown up at his door about three years into his hermitage. She’d been a loyal dog who enjoyed sleeping by the fire as Harry wrote and stealing scraps off his plate. When she died five years later, Harry had grieved his loss, but he never felt the need to replace her. He had lucked into Casey; there was no replicating that kind of good fortune.

Harry set his rucksack on the sofa and made his way upstairs. Perhaps if he managed to write a bit tonight, it would calm his mind enough so he would be able to fall asleep before the sun came up.

On Angela’s suggestion, he had hidden his manuscript away in his desk drawer so he could entirely start the story from scratch. He quickly jotted down a few plot points from his original draft, hoping he could at least salvage something out of it.

So there was his protagonist, Robert, who had finally cut ties with his family after decades of abuse. He quits his job and moves far away to start a new life, where he eventually learns that the only person he can rely on is himself.

Harry closed his eyes.

Angela was right.

It _was_ nearly the exact same story he’d written three times before.

"Fuck," he muttered. How had he managed to get to this point? More than that, how was he going to dig himself out of his hole? He could only write what he knew, but it seemed he’d entirely exhausted his knowledge on… everything, really.

Likely prompted by the events of the day, his mind drifted off to a dangerous place – his first story.

It was certainly different than what he’d published, but that was because _he_ was different then. He’d never finished it; at first it was too painful to even look at, but then, years later, Harry simply felt unfit to even touch its pages. He could never shake the feeling that his present self would only sully a work that had once been filled with such promise.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He’d been doing so well with his little life here, but today had shaken him to his core.

And, thanks to this blasted committee, he had to do it all again in two weeks.

Oh, yes. It was going to be a very long five months.

* * *

The day of the next committee meeting came far faster than Harry thought it had any right to. He’d barely been able to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes in the days immediately following the initial meeting. Then there had been a couple of days of quasi-productivity – hours of writing, following by the quick hurling of said writing into the fire – followed up the sudden realisation that the next meeting was only a few days away, which once again shot Harry’s focus entirely to hell.

Angela was going to have his head.

It was no easier walking into Hogwarts today than it had been two weeks ago. Harry’s heart still pounded in his chest and he could feel his palms begin to sweat as he was assaulted with memories. There to his left was the alcove where he had briefly sought refuge during the battle; he had cringed as he saw two Death Eaters Stun a first-year, but he couldn’t jeopardise his position at that moment. Then, just ahead, was where he had witnessed Cho Chang take a curse to the heart before collapsing on the stone floor. It was a wonder she had survived.

He shuddered. Those wretched memories played as vividly in front of his mind’s eye as they had when he was seventeen; would they ever fade? He envied the students who were darting about around him, hurrying to their next class. He would give anything to be able to see Hogwarts as just a friendly old castle rather than a cold mausoleum.

"Potter. You’re early."

Harry turned around and faced Severus, determined not to let his former lover see him falter. "Yeah, I reckon I am. But so are you."

"I closed the shop at noon," Severus said. "It’s easier to close early than attempt to drive out the mid-afternoon rush."

"I don’t recall you ever having much trouble with that before," Harry said. He flushed; it was so easy to fall back into old habits. For the briefest moment he had even forgotten the brutal way he and Severus had ended things.

Severus’ lip quirked. "I daresay not."

Harry’s throat was dry. Merlin, just being in Severus’ presence still set his nerves on fire. It was entirely overwhelming to be alone with him, and so close. He could see the new lines that had formed on Severus’ face over the years, the strands of silver beginning to streak his hair. Harry both hoped somebody would come rescue him from Severus’ intent scrutiny and that the two of them could stay locked away in their own private bubble for the rest of the day.

"So, how’s business going?" Harry asked. He needed to say something, after all, and that was as innocuous as anything.

"Fine, fine," Severus said, somewhat absently. He frowned at Harry. "How have you been sleeping?"

Harry staggered. _How have you been sleeping?_

Dimly, he was aware of himself shrugging and making some non-committal answer, but mentally, he was already back nineteen years ago, when he had first entered Severus’ shop. He’d been training with the Academy then, although training was probably too mild a word. Nearly killing himself by way of his advanced duelling course was more accurate. He’d finally make his way home well after midnight, his body aching and his mind drained, but entirely unable to fall asleep. Sheer desperation had driven him to Severus’ shop in search of a potion with minimal addictive qualities that would allow him to sleep through the night.

_"How are you sleeping, Potter?"_

Severus’ voice had been clipped, professional. Harry had been grateful for it; Hermione had always looked so worried whenever Harry mentioned he wasn’t sleeping much. At least Severus’ tone made Harry feel he wasn’t entirely abnormal. The fact that nobody else was in the shop at the time had also made him feel more secure. The last thing he had wanted was for the _Prophet_ to splash a headline in the next day’s paper that he was whinging about a little bout of insomnia.

Of course, that moment hadn’t lasted long.

_"There are countless Muggle drugs that will render you unconscious for the entire night. Why don’t you try one of those?"_

That had done it. All of Harry’s anxiety, all of his rage, all of his exhaustion-induced madness, came bursting to the surface. He'd snapped, screaming at Severus and anybody else who thought to enter the shop because he just didn't fucking care anymore.

_"I close my eyes and I see bodies, Snape! I see spells flying that I can’t block and people falling who I can’t catch. I see you on the floor with blood spilling out of your fucking neck, and I see all of this, Snape, at the one moment when I just need a moment of peace and I can’t. Fucking. Sleep."_

Harry still had no idea how long he had continued shouting. All he knew was that when he was done, despite his throat being hoarse, he felt better than he had in years. He had somehow slid to the floor, and remained there, crouched over, chest heaving, resting his head in his hands while he waited for Severus to say something.

Instead Severus had handed Harry a glass filled with a cool, clear substance.

_"What’s this? Calming Draught?"_

That was the moment that was even more vivid in Harry’s mind. He had even mentioned it to Severus later. Severus, of course, had laughed and called him ridiculous, but Harry had always secretly thought he was pleased. Because it was at that very moment, that moment when Severus had chuckled and his fingers had brushed ever so lightly over Harry’s hand, filling him with a strange and powerful warmth, that Harry had known they had something special. A connection, a bond, a link… whatever it was, it was more powerful than anything else Harry had ever felt. Whatever it was that had drawn Severus and Harry together, it had been crystallised in that one moment.

_"Oh, yes. The most powerful one known to man: water. Drink up, Potter."_

Harry had drunk it gratefully, not looking up until he’d finished the very last drop. When he did, he’d been struck by the look in Severus’ eyes. There’d been compassion there, concern, and, what’s more, understanding.

Harry had taken his hand, half-expecting Severus to tug it away. But instead they had simply stayed there, kneeling on the floor, held together by that singular point of contact. It had been his lifeline, the first time in years Harry had felt safe and sane.

And that had been the beginning of the greatest romance of Harry’s life.

Of course, that didn’t make a huge difference now. Two decades later and he was reduced to making small talk with the man who, a week after that fateful meeting in the shop, had kissed Harry fiercely until they’d both come in their trousers. What’s more, Harry was _pleased_ by it, because at least it wasn’t hostile antagonism.

He was definitely setting the bar low.

"You look exhausted," Severus said, and Harry had a feeling he’d been speaking for a rather long time.

"Just a side-effect of growing older," Harry said, hoping his voice passed for light-hearted and unaffected. "I’m pushing forty now, you know."

Severus’ eyes narrowed. "Indeed. If you’re interested, I do have some potions that might be of use to you if you’d like to stop by the shop."

Harry glanced down, afraid to meet Severus’ eye. Severus had always been able to tell exactly what he was thinking, which would be quite dangerous at the moment. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."

Much to his disgust, he meant it.

* * *

Harry took his cup of tea outside, settling down on his favourite rock. It had a slight dip in it, making it surprisingly comfortable to sit in for hours on end. He did a lot of his writing here, much to Angela’s chagrin. She was still convinced she’d one day be able to convert Harry to typing on a computer. "You bloody writers," she always sighed whenever she and Harry met to discuss his manuscript. "Always so damn romantic with your pen and paper. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wrote with a quill and ink."

That did always make Harry laugh. He’d never dream of writing with anything else. He’d just never mention to Angela that the copies he sent her were reproduced by wand, and not by a Xerox machine.

Harry drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of the bay. It was a bit on the chilly side, and judging from the clouds, rain would be falling before long, but it was still precisely where Harry needed to be at this very moment.

It was, perhaps, time to face an uncomfortable truth. When Harry had moved out here, it had been admittedly to escape from a painful time in his life. He remembered explaining it to Ron and Hermione – he needed some peace and quiet, time away from the madness of a recovering Wizarding world so he, too, could heal.

As years had gone by, Harry truly had believed he’d been doing just that. He found tranquillity here on the rugged coast. The view was stunning. It inspired him to write. He’d found great success in writing out here, publishing six novels in fifteen years, all of which sold quite well. It wasn’t the most exciting life, no, but for the most part, it suited him.

Now, however, he began to wonder if he was staying here less because he loved it, and more because he still felt the need to hide from his past. His reaction to Hogwarts was unsettling. Ron and Hermione had fought in the same battles he had, and they were able to walk freely around Hogwarts without being crippled by horrific memories.

It seemed he’d been walking around considering himself a fully functioning, healthy adult, when in all actuality he’d simply been covered with proverbial plasters.

"Where’s your Gryffindor courage, Potter?" he asked. His younger self wouldn’t have even needed to stop to think about it. He would have immediately returned to Hogwarts to confront his fears. He’d battled Basilisks and Dementors before his voice had even changed. He could handle a few bad memories.

He shook his head. It was all too much. It had seemed tolerable when he had Severus by his side. And perhaps Severus was another plaster as well, but somehow, Harry didn’t think so. He could talk to Severus without fear of judgment. Severus shared so many of the same fears and nightmares. He pushed Harry to confront them, to move on, to prove that he was more than just The Chosen One, the slayer of Voldemort.

"You have your entire life ahead of you," Severus had told him so many times. "Live it on your own terms."

Harry had felt strong with Severus. He was still struggling to cope, yes, but it was a fight he felt he’d one day win. Severus had made him feel as though things would get better.

_Until Severus said he didn’t want you anymore._

Yes, Harry needed to remember that. No matter how cordial Severus may have been at today’s meeting, he’d given no indication that he wanted anything more than a casual acquaintanceship with Harry. Hell, now Harry felt rather embarrassed about that feeling of warmth that had spread through his chest when Severus had told him to stop by the shop for a potion. Severus was a businessman; of course he wanted to establish a regular clientele. It wasn’t out of any lingering _concern_ for Harry’s well being.

That was long over.

Harry downed the remainder of his tea and grimaced.

It would take far more than a cup of Earl Grey to sort out this problem.

* * *

Valentine’s Day had long ceased to hold any kind of significance for Harry. He’d never enjoyed the holiday, and one of the greatest perks of living by himself in Connemara was that he was able to celebrate it exactly how he saw fit: by ignoring it completely.

Having to be back at Hogwarts for the final planning meeting before Lavender's Valentine’s Day dance brought back all the reasons Harry hated the holiday. Garish pink and red decorations adorned every millimetre of the castle, with girls scurrying by giggling while the boys turned red-faced and sheepish. Golden cherubs flittered about, tossing heart-shaped confetti over all who passed through the castle while singing love songs, and several spotty first-years hurried through the corridors, delivering red roses.

Harry shook his head. He shouldn’t be so dour. He knew the students had paid for all their treats, money that would go towards the 20th Anniversary Commemorative Fund. He should be pleased Maxwell and Eliza’s efforts had been so successful. He _was_ pleased, in fact, and highly relieved.

It just didn’t change the fact he was relieved beyond belief he no longer attended Hogwarts.

The staffroom, mercifully, had escaped the indignity of being adorned with doilies and paper hearts, and Harry quickly settled in. Percy nodded to him when he entered, but then excused himself a moment later to sort out a situation with the Ministry. As he left, naturally, Severus walked in.

"Potter," he acknowledged, taking a seat across from him.

"Hey," Harry said. He didn’t know how to address him anymore. Despite the way things had ended, Snape no longer existed in his mind. After countless late night discussions that lasted till the sun rose, hours of sitting in front of the fire taking solace in each other’s presence, and the sex, _Merlin, the **sex**_ , only Severus remained. Severus apparently had no problem reverting to calling Harry by his surname, but for Harry, it was akin to uttering the most offensive profanity.

They sat silently for a few moments, neither of them making eye contact with the other. Then, still not saying a word, Severus pulled a phial from his robes and slid it down the table towards Harry.

"Since you didn’t stop by my shop, I took the liberty of brewing this for you," Severus said. "A single drop below the tongue ten minutes before bed should suffice."

Harry blinked. "Wow. Thanks. Um, I didn’t bring any money with me…"

"I don’t want your money, Potter," Severus snapped.

_Then what do you want?_ Harry yearned to ask, but instead he simply stared at the phial in his hands. "Well, that’s great, then. Thanks."

Severus nodded. "If you had stopped by, I would have been able to fine-tune it especially to suit your needs, but this should work fine. It’s a powerful sleeping aid with no addictive qualities. I would, however, advise against taking it tonight if you’re hoping to impress your Valentine. Once taken, it will leave you unconscious for a full eight hours."

Harry snorted. "I don’t think that’ll be a problem."

"Really," Severus said, quirking an eyebrow. "Still so assured of your stamina, even at your ripe old age?"

"No," Harry said. "More assured that I don’t have a Valentine to impress."

"Interesting," Severus said. "Not even Miss Weasley? I hear she’s single again."

"Yeah, somehow I doubt she’s waiting for me to come calling," Harry said. His relationship with Ginny had disintegrated rapidly many years ago. They had drifted apart following their breakup when they were still at Hogwarts, but any chance of a close friendship had vanished after Harry came to stay at the Burrow for a week following the end of his relationship with Severus. Devastated by Severus’ rejection and growing quickly tired of Molly’s none-too-subtle attempts at matchmaking, Harry had snapped one evening at supper, shouting that he was never going to be in love with Ginny and they should all just leave his love life alone.

It wasn’t Molly’s fault. She didn’t know that Severus and Harry had been dating. Nobody did, other than Ron and Hermione. She just thought Harry was struggling a bit to figure out what to do with his life after quitting the Academy. Still, the damage had been done. Although they exchanged awkward apologies the next day, Harry had realised that it was time for him to move on. He had purchased his cottage three days later and had never – well, far less often than he thought he would have – looked back.

Percy re-entered the room then, with McGonagall, Eliza, and Maxwell at his heels. A moment later Hermione slid into the seat next to Harry, and the meeting began.

"Miss Flowers, would you mind giving us a report on what the Lavender Brown Valentine’s Day Dance has raised thus far?" Percy asked, unrolling a long piece of parchment.

"We requested a twenty Sickle donation for anybody attending the dance this Friday," Eliza said. "We’ve sold 400 tickets so far, with some donating more, some less. Thus, ticket sale revenue stands at 496 Galleons, nine Sickles, and seven Knuts."

"And with the Valentines and flowers, et cetera?" Percy asked, not looking up from his note taking.

"All in all, we’ve raised 543 Galleons, three Sickles, and nine Knuts."

Harry’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting the students to raise from one dance, but it certainly wasn’t anything that high.

"We’ll also have some raffles tonight, so you can expect that total to be a bit higher," Maxwell added. "We think we can break 560 Galleons fairly easily, but we’d love to hit 600."

Percy pushed his glasses back on his nose. "Well, well. Nicely done. Remind me that I need to Floo Gringotts immediately following this meeting."

Eliza and Maxwell exchanged grins, and Harry was fairly certain the two of them would be exchanging Valentines themselves later, if they hadn’t already.

"This is as good a time as any to discuss a rather critical order of business," Percy said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out two stacks of parchment. He passed one to his left, the other to his right. "I’m distributing two lists. The first names the victims of the Battle of Hogwarts. The second lists a number of worthy charities. Please note that this is not an exhaustive list; it merely serves to generate ideas."

"I believe the intention was to choose charities that would hold special meaning for the victims, yes?" McGonagall asked, peering at the list.

"Indeed." Percy coughed. "I realise this activity may be… difficult for many in the room. We certainly do not need to come to a final decision today, but we should at least come to some agreements."

Harry wasn’t even looking at the charities. Instead, his eye had immediately been drawn to the list of the dead. He knew these names. He could likely recite them all without even looking at this piece of parchment. But seeing them there, staring up at him, a painful reminder in black and white… _Lavender Brown. Colin Creevey. Juno Devine._

"Miss Flowers, Mr Vederian, in this case, your objectivity may be exquisitely valu – "

"Are we missing a page?" Harry asked.

Percy frowned. "Sorry?"

"This list is missing people," Harry said. "A lot of people. Far more people were killed than are listed on this piece of parchment."

"Well, yes, in the war overall, but I believe we were specifically looking for individuals killed at the Battle of Hogwarts."

Harry shook his head, growing agitated. "No. Where’s Vincent Crabbe? Bellatrix Black?"

Percy’s eyes widened in surprise. "Well, naturally we aren’t including Death Eaters in our figures."

"And why not?" Harry asked. "They died, too."

"But they were Death Eaters," Maxwell blurted out. "Why would you want to honour them? Besides, didn’t I hear that Bellatrix killed your godfather?"

"They still died," Harry said. "They were still killed in battle." _He still saw their corpses sprawled on the ground. He still held their deaths in his heart._

"They were the reason there was a battle in the first place," Percy said, as though he were explaining a very basic concept to an exceptionally thick first-year.

Harry stood up, unable to sit still any longer. "No, that was because of Voldemort. These people… yeah, some of them were evil. Definitely. But some were mad. Some were broken. Some of them only took the Mark because they wanted to protect their own families. How can we deliberately turn our backs on them?"

"Harry," Percy interrupted.

"No," Harry said. "They did awful things. And many of them were awful people. But they were loved by somebody, at some point, at least. And even if they weren’t… isn’t that the most tragic thing? Can we not take the smallest dose of pity to donate a Galleon in their memory to a cause that may save somebody else from a similar fate?"

Percy sighed. "Would anybody else care to share their opinion?"

"I agree with Mr Potter," McGonagall said, giving Harry a small, encouraging smile. "If we are truly honouring the victims of the Battle of Hogwarts, we must honour _all_ of the victims. Many were victims of their families and society far before they were victims of war."

"Well, I agree with that," Percy said. "But should we not at least distinguish those who had only evil in their hearts from those with… extenuating circumstances?"

"How can we pick and choose?" Harry asked. "To decide who’s worthy and who was beyond saving?"

Percy pushed his glasses back on his nose. "Fine. Other opinions?"

"I agree with Potter and the headmistress," Severus said.

"As do I," Hermione said, and Eliza and Maxwell nodded in agreement.

"Oh, very well," Percy sniffed, and took out a new piece of parchment. "I suppose this means we’ll have to consider the giant deaths as well."

Harry stared.

Percy heaved a great sigh. "Oh, dear Godric. Very well."

"The Society for Wizard-Giant Relations does excellent work promoting peaceful relationships between the Wizarding world and giants," Hermione said.

"Of course it does," Percy said, with only a hint of sarcasm. It was clear he still thought they were all mad. "Any suggestions for the Death Eaters?"

"Perhaps an orphanage," Harry said, remembering the Pensieve scenes of a young Tom Riddle growing up in such a place.

"Or a centre for those from abusive homes," Hermione said. "Not to mention the ward for the mentally ill at St Mungo’s. Really, Percy, this is not as difficult as you make it seem. We can honour their memory by doing our best to see that history does not repeat itself."

His heart rate finally slowing to a more reasonable tempo, Harry returned to his seat. Hermione took his hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. Harry took it gratefully, already counting the moment until he could return home and sit on his rock on the bay.

Unable to help himself, Harry glanced over at Severus. He’d been remarkably quiet during the discussion, even though Harry knew he must have had very strong opinions on the matter.

To his surprise, Severus met his eye firmly and gave him the slightest of nods before raising a finger in the air to attract Percy’s attention.

Harry leaned back in his seat, chest heaving.

_Victory._

* * *

If Harry thought Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was bad, the dance was even worse.

The decorations weren’t any different from earlier in the week, but there were simply _more_ of them. More roses, more cupids, more candy hearts spilling out of heart-shaped bowls on top of tables draped with heart-covered tablecloths.

It was nauseating.

But it was not the only thing turning Harry’s stomach. He’d always been able to manage going to and from committee meetings without drawing much attention to himself. However, apparently word had spread that the elusive Harry Potter was going to be attending the dance as an official representative of the committee to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and any eyes that were not on their sweethearts appeared to be glued on him instead.

It was hard to believe that once upon a time he’d been used to this kind of behaviour. He’d never been comfortable with it, and he despised the attention, but there had been a point in his life where he’d simply expected the blatant curiosity of others as an unavoidable nuisance. But now even _that_ seemed unnatural.

He saw the students staring at him, wide-eyed, mouthing his name. The parents in attendance, far more than Harry remembered ever seeing at the Yule Ball, were somehow even less subtle in their scrutiny. The first time Harry made his way over to the punch bowl, he’d been accosted by a group of witches who’d been determined to get him onto the dance floor and didn’t see any problem with being _hands on_ in their approach. Harry had hurried back to a corner of the Great Hall, punch forgotten.

But even there he wasn’t entirely safe. People he’d never met before greeted him like an old friend, asking him what he’d been up to and if the rumours he was coming back to Hogwarts to teach were true. Others approached him to congratulate him on the success of the dance and ask how planning for the rest of the events were going. Harry knew they meant well, but it was difficult to remember that when the conversation inevitably progressed to recalling memories of the war and its victims.

Well, on the others’ ends, anyway. Harry had precious little he could contribute to such discussions, as he found his jaw growing tighter and tighter with each person who attempted to draw him into conversation. It seemed to be the only way to keep his heart from pounding out of his throat.

After a wide-eyed second year, led over by his grinning, vaguely familiar father, asked if Harry had been there to witness Neville Longbottom kill "You Know Who’s giant snake," Harry was nearly shaking. Merlin, the way people talked, as though it had been some exciting Quidditch match with an exceptional play. There was nothing exciting about any of it. The main emotion Harry felt when he thought back about that day was horror.

"Potter!"

Harry sighed in relief. Severus’ furious bark had never sounded more glorious.

"I don’t know what kind of stunt you were attempting to pull, but I assure you, you will not fool me." Severus’ eyes were blazing, but Harry could tell from the way he held himself, simultaneously blocking the others from closing in on Harry while also keeping a safe distance himself, that he intended for Harry to play along.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about!" Harry said, summoning the righteous indignation of his youth.

"You never did," Severus snarled. "But loath I may be to make a scene at this… _celebration._ " He reached for Harry’s wrist, but it was only the barest of touches. "Come."

Severus gave up the pretence of dragging Harry by the arm once they were safely out of the Great Hall, but Harry still followed him down several long corridors until they reached an unused classroom. He shut the door behind them and turned to look at Harry, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you all right?"

Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His breath was now coming in sharp gasps and he could feel his heart beating out a sharp staccato rhythm against his ribcage. Even though they were safely away from the revellers, he could still hear their voices swirling around his head, asking questions he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

Severus frowned, then stepped out of the room.

Harry let out a long, shuddering breath. Of _course_. Severus may have rescued him from a tense situation, but that didn’t mean he wanted anything to do with him. Why did Harry keep forgetting that rather significant detail? He covered his face with his hands, fighting back the sting of tears prickling his eyes as he attempted to control his breathing.

"Drink this."

Harry peered through his fingers, and a nearly hysterical laugh burst through his lips.

Snape was holding out a glass of water.

"Calming Draught?" Harry couldn’t help but ask.

A small smirk appeared on Severus’ face. "The most powerful one known to man."

Already feeling calmer, Harry sipped cautiously from the glass, the cool liquid soothing his frayed nerves.

"You really haven’t changed at all," Severus said, wonder and disbelief tinting his voice. "I would have thought…"

Harry bristled at the implication. "You see if you like everybody talking about you like you’re some kind of circus freak. Forgive me if I’m a little out of practice with handling that."

Severus shook his head. "No. I was referring more to your tells."

"What are you talking about?" Harry took another long sip of water.

"I could always tell the second you were growing uncomfortable," Severus said quietly, nearly to himself. "You close in on yourself, physically, enough so that I always thought I should check to see if there was somebody nearby with a wand extended, inflicting a Full Body-Bind Curse on you."

Harry’s hand tightened around his glass.

"Then your jaw," Severus continued. "As though you were willing every muscle not to allow you to shout. Until you progressed to how you were when I was finally able to reach you tonight, your hands gripping your robes so tightly they threaten to rip holes in the fabric."

Harry set the glass of water, still half full, down on a nearby desk. He was too stunned to drink any more of it.

"I used to be able to reach you before that point," Severus said, this time so quietly the words were nearly inaudible. Harry wasn't entirely sure Severus even meant for his words to be heard. "I never wanted you to tear your robes again."

_Then **why**?_ Merlin, Harry could ask the question now if he wanted, he knew. It was the closest thing he’d likely ever get to an invitation from Severus to learn what had gone so wrong that made Severus turn against him so suddenly all those years ago. But Harry wasn’t feeling particularly brave at the moment, and if Severus’ revelation was even as close to as painful as Harry imagined it would be, Harry didn’t think he’d be able to take it. And it wasn’t as though Severus could rescue him from that terrible moment as well.

"Are you feeling more like yourself?" Severus asked, his voice back to normal.

Harry shrugged. Normal was such a subjective term.

"You should finish that water," Severus said, nodding towards the glass.

"I will," Harry said. "There’s no need to wait for me. You can go back."

"I don’t need your permission," Severus snapped.

"Well, aren’t you?" Harry asked.

"On my own time," Severus said. He walked towards a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room and began to casually skim through the titles.

They didn’t speak another word. Instead, Harry sat down at a desk and slowly finished his water while Severus continued to flip through various textbooks, all while casting surreptitious glances at Harry. It didn’t feel awkward, not even the moment when their eyes accidentally met. In fact, it was the most peaceful Harry had felt at Hogwarts ever since returning to be on the committee. Harry could almost remember what it was like to sit in these classrooms and consider the castle home.

Some time later, Harry stood up. "I think I’m going to find Ron and Hermione and head home," he said. "Thanks."

Severus nodded and returned the book he was reading to the shelves. "It’s time I made my goodbyes as well."

"You?" Harry asked. "I thought you usually preferred to leave as quickly and efficiently as possible."

"Perhaps I’ve grown more polite and considerate in my dotage," Severus sniffed.

Harry grinned. "Yeah. I’m sure."

He was able to find Ron and Hermione quickly, and after assuring them he was all right and promising he’d stop by for supper later that week, hugged them both good night. He took long strides as he left the Great Hall, not wanting to give anybody the opportunity to entrap him in conversation.

But he couldn’t help but catch a final look at Severus, standing by the entrance, his gaze fixed upon Harry. His head held high, Harry gave him a final nod, and continued to make his way home.

* * *

"You’re looking better."

Harry finished chewing his roasted fingerling potato and glanced up at Hermione. "I didn’t realise I hadn’t been looking well."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Hermione said. "This is the first time you’ve visited us since Hugo was born that I didn’t feel the need to ask you if you’d been sleeping or eating."

"And yet…"

"Well, it’s a hard habit to break," Hermione said.

"Better keep it up, mate," Ron suggested. "Now that she’s seen you looking good, you have to keep it up or she’ll double down even more next time you visit."

Harry snorted and returned to his meal. Hermione could still be a little overbearing, but today he didn’t even mind it. It could be, of course, because she was right. Harry had been able to sleep better, thanks to Severus’ flawless potion. He'd managed to write down a few new ideas he thought Angela might be pleased with. He’d even taken out his Invisibility Cloak and gone flying, the first time he’d used his broom in at least five years. And, most monumental in his mind, he’d managed to attend today’s committee meeting at Hogwarts without his anxiety level skyrocketing.

Truly, if his biggest complaint of the week was that Hermione insisted on him taking home some leftover chicken, well, he would take it.

"Plans for the concert going well?" Ron asked.

"Surprisingly, yes," Hermione said. "While I think it’s lovely we’re holding it on Remus’ birthday, I was worried with the concert being so soon after the Valentine’s Day dance, but it seems so many artists were eager to be involved that the coordination required was fairly minimal."

"As they should be," Ron said. "Who’s coming? Should I air out my dragonskin trousers, stretch them out a bit so they’re set for me to do some dancing?"

Hugo’s face went white. "Da-aaad."

"No, I think the trousers can stay right where they are," Hermione said.

"Don’t worry, Hugo," Ron said with a wink. "I can dance in anything."

Hugo blinked. "May I be excused?"

"Not until you finish your asparagus," Hermione said.

"So, who’s performing, anyway?" Ron asked.

"Well, Celestina Warbeck is hosting," Hermione said. "And we have seven acts confirmed so far. Lorcan d'Eath, the Vibes Twins, Spellbound –"

"Anybody from this century?" Hugo asked.

"Your asparagus, Hugo," Hermione said. "And, yes. Kikimora, Wicked Jenny, Faerie Knight, and… Circe’s Teat."

"Circe’s Teat? Really? Are you serious?"

Hermione sighed. "Apparently they’re all the rage these days. It would be foolish not to invite them, as they’d definitely sell tickets."

Harry chuckled. "Have to say I’m glad I don’t need to keep up with Wizarding music these days."

"Yeah, what do you listen to anyway?" Ron asked. "Bagpipes off in the distance?"

"No, it’s usually a wandering shepherd’s flute," Harry said.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I can never tell if you’re joking when you say things like that."

Several hours later, Harry was on his way home, a container of chicken under his arm. Typically, he used the Floo, but it was a surprisingly nice night, so Harry thought he’d walk for a bit first before Apparating home.

Ron and Hermione didn’t live far from Hogsmeade, and Harry soon found himself walking some very familiar streets. It wasn’t something he’d likely be able to do in the light of day – he may have recovered relatively quickly from the chaos of the Valentine’s Day dance, but that didn’t mean he wanted to test fate by wandering about one of the most bustling Wizarding towns – but it was rather peaceful at night. A few people were still walking about, but they were content to keep to their side of the street. Harry moved slowly, taking in all the new shops as well as those that looked exactly as they had twenty years ago.

And then…

Of course.

He should have known he’d end up here.

How many times had he wandered through Hogsmeade, trying to pass the time before he showed up at Severus’ shop, not wanting to arrive _too_ much earlier than the agreed upon time? It was second nature to continue along this route to the long, narrow shop nestled just out of the way of the main action of Hogsmeade.

Some of his fondest memories took place here, he realised. It was where his and Severus’ entire relationship began, after all. It was where they had kissed for the first time – Harry had stopped by on his lunch break from the Academy covered in bruises and burns, the result of a morning of duelling. Severus had insisted on tending to his injuries, covering them all gently with salve while carefully avoiding eye contact with Harry. But then Harry had grabbed his wrist, forcing him to look at him, and something _hot_ flickered across Severus’ face. And then his face had descended, and his lips brushed against Harry’s, and soon enough they were wrapped in a fierce, passionate embrace.

It was where Harry had first heard Severus laugh – Harry had made some passing off-colour remark, something so insignificant he couldn’t even remember what it was – but somehow it had vastly amused Severus. He had burst out laughing, and, after a moment of stunned silence, Harry had joined in as well.

And it had been where Harry had finally realised he needed to quit the Academy.

He’d come to the shop over lunch, as he always did. They had spent the morning conducting a mock raid, an activity that always put Harry’s nerves on edge.

_"I hate it. We’re supposed to be the heroes, but we’re stalking people, following them into their homes, exploiting their weakness, and storming in. If there’s a kid in there? Doesn’t matter. Just need to disarm the bad guys."_

He’d always hated that. He’d tried to explain it to his superior once, that it didn’t matter if the raid was for "the greater good;" it was still a traumatic event for everybody involved. It would still tear apart families. People could still end up dead. The Aurors, the "saviours," couldn’t swoop in and out, take the criminal and expect everything else to remain exactly the same. There were consequences.

His superior had only raised his eyebrows and told him to take five.

_"Do you see yourself as an Auror?"_

He’d nodded because yes, he had. It had been the only career he’d ever really considered. And he was doing well at the Academy, top of his class. He’d even learned there was a betting pool about how many years it would take before he was named Head Auror.

_"But do you enjoy it?"_

No. He’d hated every minute of it. He’d hated the procedures. He’d hated the damage. He’d hated how the Battle of Hogwarts had never been far from his mind, the knowledge of how many lives had been ruined weighing heavy on his wand every time he raised it to utter a curse.

_"I’d be good at it. And maybe I could change things. Make them see the world’s not all black and white, good guys and bad. I could save people."_

Harry could still remember the expression on Severus’ face at that moment. He’d been more sombre than Harry had ever remembered seeing him, and appeared to be weighing his words carefully, as though working through how to articulate an Unbreakable Vow.

_"How many more must you save, Harry? When will it be enough? How many must live for you to finally forgive yourself for deaths that were not your fault?"_

The question had taken Harry’s breath away. There would never be an end, he realised. Because no matter how many lives he saved as an Auror, he knew it would never make up for the loss of lives suffered during the war.

_"For once in your damn life, Harry, do something for yourself. Get out while you still can."_

It had been strange, even at that point in their relationship, to hear Severus say such a thing. When Harry had been a student, Severus had thought him spoiled and selfish. When Harry became an adult, Severus had mostly refrained from giving his opinion on Harry’s professional pursuits. Other than offering him healing potions, giving general advice on spells, and helping him revise for exams, he’d always stayed back. Harry had always wondered if there was something he wasn’t saying. He hadn’t been expecting this.

_"But they need me. I can do things nobody else can. Things other people struggle with… I don’t even need to think about. People need me. They expect me to be there for them. What if –"_

Oh, yes. The what ifs. Deadly things.

_"Fuck them all. You killed the Dark Lord. That’s enough for any lifetime. The only person you owe anything to is yourself."_

That was a lie. Harry also owed a great deal to Severus. Without his guidance, Harry likely would have continued on his career path, hating every second of it. And he would have remained an Auror until he was either injured to the point he could no longer work anymore or he was forced into retirement.

And it still never would have been enough.

He hadn’t been able to find a career at first, not for a long while. With extra time on his hands and idea what he wanted to do with his life, he’d begun writing. They were mostly half-ideas, stories that came to him on the edge of sleep that he’d hurried to jot down the next morning while he still remembered them. Sometimes he’d tried to expand upon them, but never had much success. Not, at least, until he’d started the story that was closest to his mind and heart, the story about Severus.

A light flickered in the window, and Harry jumped. He’d been so lost in his memories that he’d forgotten where he was. And of course Severus would still be in the shop.

He could stop in, he realised. Severus had invited him twice now.

Then Severus’ face appeared in the window. He looked straight at Harry, his eyebrow arched, the question evident.

Harry waved weakly and, not ready to confront his past, Disapparated.

* * *

Harry cupped his mug in his hand, looking out over the water. It was an unseasonably warm day, and he was enjoying the sunshine. Sea birds soared overhead, casting shadows on the ground below.

"You really do want to drive me entirely mad, don’t you?"

Harry turned around to see Angela Atwater marching towards him. She always looked so out of place when she visited. Dressed in a severe navy suit, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, she was constantly at odds with the easy, tranquil setting of Connemara.

"I didn’t know you were planning on visiting today," Harry said, rising to meet her.

"You would have if you answered the mobile I bought you," Angela said. "Listen, Harry. I understand the whole ‘genius writer works best when allowed to work alone in the middle of nowhere,’ truly, I do. It’s a cliché as old as time itself. But you have to give a girl _something._ Do you know how far away I have to park? And then climbing up this hill in heels?"

"Well, I’d think you’d be used to it by now," Harry said. "And I do reply to all of your letters."

"Oh, wonderful," Angela said. "Now, if only we had a time machine and could go back to 1997 when people actually communicated with pen and paper."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "Well, you’re here now. I assume there’s something you’d like to discuss?"

"Yes," Angela said. She glanced around, frowning. "Would you mind we take this inside? I forgot to schedule a massage for this month. I don’t think I should chance the rock chair."

Once inside and seated at the kitchen table, Angela handed Harry a familiar package. "So you received my latest proposal," Harry said. "What did you think?"

Angela sighed and pulled out her glasses from her purse. "I can work with this," she said, and perched the glasses on her nose. "But I’m curious if you want me to."

Harry frowned. "Why wouldn’t I want you to? That’s why I sent it."

"It’s different from your usual work," Angela said. "It took me a little while to see that, but it’s there. Different characters, different setting, a slightly different tone…"

"But?"

"But it all adds up to more of the same," Angela said. "Now, like I said, if you wanted to write this story, I could sell it. Put a spin on it, make people think they’re reading something entirely groundbreaking."

Harry drummed his fingers on the table.

"But eventually somebody’s going to realise it," Angela continued. "This book would prolong your career. But it would be a stopgap. At your next manuscript, we’re going to be right back at square one."

"So what you’re saying is I still need something new," Harry said.

"I didn’t say that at all," Angela said. "If you need more time, then that’s fine. We can push this story through quickly, and you can focus more of your attention on a new effort. But I only wonder if that’s what you want. You always take so much pride in your works, Harry. I don’t know if you want to put out a book if you know it’s not your very best."

Harry sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don’t know what else to do, Angela. I don’t feel like I have anything else in me."

Angela pursed her lips. "Who are you, Harry Potter?"

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I looked you up, you know," she said. "When you submitted your first manuscript. When we met for the first time, you said you were writing under a pseudonym because there were people who would recognise your name, that you were very well known, and that you didn’t want to attract attention."

Harry didn’t say anything.

"So, naturally that kind of statement makes a girl curious. So I looked you up. It was difficult at first. Harry Potter is a pretty common name. But I didn’t let that deter me. I have a way with Google – always have to research your potential boyfriends, you know. But do you know what I found?" She paused, only continuing when Harry shook his head. "Almost nothing. There was a story of a baby being orphaned after his parents were killed in a car accident in the eighties. Then a couple of things here and there – your driver’s license, a couple of tickets, and so on. But nothing exciting. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"So maybe I lied to you," Harry said. "Maybe I just wanted to seem more interesting so you’d sign me."

Angela shook her head. "No, you didn’t. I know desperation. You wouldn’t cave on that. You needed absolute secrecy, or you wouldn’t have allowed us to publish your book. Most first-time writers aren’t like that. They want a deal, they’ll take it. On our terms. But not you."

"I can’t tell you about my old life," Harry said.

"Well, frankly, I don’t want to hear about it," Angela said. "Believe me, I have enough with hearing my boyfriend ramble on about his childhood like he’s the only one in the world who’s ever had mummy issues. But I _do_ know what sells novels. "

"And?"

Angela leaned across the table and met his eyes directly. "You write what’s happening in your life at this very moment, the here and now. It was exciting at first, because it was a new stage in your life. But now? You’re not moving anywhere, Harry. You’re stunted."

"I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere," Harry said dryly.

"Did I not just say you were once exciting?" Angela asked. "But I digress. You, as Cathair Duffy, are comfortable in life. You have your charming cottage in the middle of nowhere, you have professional success, you don’t appear to have an interest in a love life… you are settled. But we’ve all heard that story. Seven times now. We’re tired of Cathair wandering until he finds comfort in his solitude."

"I won’t publish as Harry Potter," Harry warned.

"Oh, for a brilliant writer, you can be remarkably thick," Angela said, rolling her eyes. "Cathair Duffy is alive and well. But I don’t want his story. I want _Harry Potter’s_ story. I want his dreams. I want his fears. I want to know what moulded him into Cathair, and I want to know who he wants to be once Cathair is gone. I need _more_ , Harry. I need you to go beyond anything you’ve ever written before. I want you to touch upon things you swore you’d never write, that you kept bottled up inside. And don’t tell me they don’t exist. Because I know they do. There is a side of you that you’re keeping tucked away, and _that_ is the story we need to read."

Harry shook his head. "I don’t know if I can do that. I haven’t… I can’t…"

For the first time that day, Angela’s eyes softened. "You can, Harry. You have a real gift. And when you touch upon those emotions that hold the most power over you… I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am to read it. It will be your masterpiece. But I need you to be brave, and I need you to be vulnerable. Can you do that for me?"

Harry stared down at his hands. He knew exactly what story needed to be told. He’d already started it, so many years ago. He always hated rereading his writing – it made him rather self-conscious, and he spent half his time marking changes he should have made and the other half berating himself for being pretentious enough to read his own writing – but something told him this manuscript would hold up.

But it would be, without a doubt, the most intimate story he’d ever told. And while he might still be hiding behind a pseudonym, it would still be his entire soul stretched bare.

It was, in fact, the only story that actually _frightened_ Harry. Not the act of writing it, of course. Any idiot could write a story. No, he was scared of what he might find once the story was read back to him.

But…

"I can try," Harry said slowly.

"Good," Angela said, straightening. "Exactly what I wanted to hear. Send me a proposal within a fortnight, and then shall we say 50,000 words by April 15? Oh, but you still won’t use the computer we kindly bought you… let’s say four inches thick of that weird paper you insist on using."

Harry nodded. His manuscript was at least that long already.

"And pick up your mobile next time," Angela said, standing. "I don’t know what I would have done if I had climbed up that hill and found you weren’t even here."

"I lost the charger," Harry said.

"More like you threw it into the bay," Angela said, heading for the door. "I know how you operate. Don’t worry; I’ll have them send you a new one tomorrow."

"Thanks," Harry said. "I’ll be sure to plug it in right away."

"Yes, you will," Angela said. "And you’ll even turn it off silent."

"I don’t work well with interruptions," Harry said. "Technology ruins the mood."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Writers. God help me."

Harry grinned. Despite her rather brash demeanour, he quite liked Angela. "Until we meet again?"

"I’ll remember to bring trainers," Angela said. She paused, her hand on the door. "And Harry? Good luck. I know this is going to be something very special."

Harry closed the door behind her, and rested his head against the hard surface.

He wasn’t sure "special" was exactly the word he’d use to describe it.

* * *

Harry set his glass and bottle of wine down on his desk and took a seat. He didn’t typically drink while writing; he’d heard of some people who had a great deal of success freeing their mind with the help of alcohol, but he found that it only caused him to miss crucial connections between his characters and their stories. But tonight?

Tonight was a special circumstance.

He carefully adjusted the one decoration on his desk, a framed quote from Ray Bradbury that had always given him courage to write, even on his days when he was most crippled with self-doubt. _Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper._ But while usually the words brought him energy and renewed his drive, today they almost seemed a threat.

This was the story that had been burning within him for twenty years. Harry knew that if he lost control of it, it would consume his very being. But if he could _control_ it, capture it on the page with a quill and ink …

" _Accio key,_ " he said, determined. A large planter in the corner rattled and shook as a small silver key flew out of the base towards Harry, scattering piles of soil along the way.

Drawing a deep breath, Harry took the key and cautiously unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. "It’s just a pile of parchment, Potter," he muttered. "No need to be so damn jumpy. _Control_."

Harry knew it was impossible, but he could have sworn the parchment warmed in his hands. It had been so _long_. He thought back to all the nights when he couldn’t sleep, and instead sneaked out of the bedroom to write at Severus’ desk. It had been comforting, being surrounded by Severus’ books and notes, breathing in his scent as he began composing a tale inspired by their relationship, a plot drawn from both of their own stories and how fate had pulled them together despite seemingly insurmountable odds.

It felt both soothing and scandalous. Harry and Severus never divulged the nature of their relationship to anybody except for Ron and Hermione. Harry wouldn’t have minded – in fact, several times Harry had suggested it might make things easier on themselves if they made their relationship public. But Severus had refused; at that point, the press was especially ruthless in their attempts to gain access to Harry, and Severus was concerned they would tear the Chosen One apart if they knew with whom he was sharing a bed. And while he never said it, Harry knew Severus was also afraid that he, still traumatised from the war, would not be able to handle the additional stress of the intense scrutiny by the public.

So sitting by the flickering light of the fireplace, drawing out the details of their romance felt like finally sharing all their secrets. It was where he could write the reasons why Severus had completely captured his heart and the challenges they faced on a daily basis. He could write about how he still felt entirely fucked up, but he finally felt as though he was on a path to healing. He could share the dreams he had that he only dared to acknowledge when he was sitting there in the dark, disguising them as the hopes and ambitions of his characters. Seeing them all on the parchment, etched out there in black ink, made them all feel so _real_ , even if he was setting them in a fictional universe.

Harry had never shared his secret with Severus. At first he was embarrassed, thinking it was the juvenile ramblings of a young man in the throes of his first romance. But gradually he’d come to realise it was more that that. At that point, Harry wouldn’t have even _dreamed_ of publication, but he knew there was something significant in this story. So he had re-doubled his efforts, wanting to present Severus with a finished work as a present for his 41st birthday.

And then…

Harry sighed and poured himself a healthy amount of wine. "And then it all went entirely to shit," he muttered, taking a sip.

They’d had a wonderful Christmas together. For the first time, Harry had eschewed the Burrow, instead choosing to spend the entire day with Severus. After exchanging gifts in front of their tiny tree – for Harry, an exquisite dragonhide cloak, and for Severus, a framed photo of themselves that Hermione had shot and a rare first edition of a Dark Arts text he’d been trying to track down for years – they had spent the entire day in bed. When they weren’t shagging, they were lying in each other’s arms, talking about nothing and everything significant.

It was, in a word, bliss.

And then everything had changed.

Harry could pinpoint the exact moment.

He’d spent Boxing Day at the Burrow, mostly to appease Ron. Molly had not been pleased that Harry wasn’t spending Christmas Day with them, imagining him spending the holiday by himself, and had driven Ron mad demanding answers. Supper had been served later than expected, and so Harry didn’t make it home until Severus was already in bed. That hadn’t prevented them from engaging in some rather enjoyable passion that evening, an act that they repeated the next morning before Severus left for work.

Severus hadn’t returned from work that day. At least, not the Severus that Harry had come to love. He’d been cold, distant, leaving early for work the next day and returning late. He didn’t seem to even want to look at Harry, let alone talk to him. He snapped at Harry for every little infraction – leaving a glass of water out on the table, pacing about the room for no reason, not fully sealing the phial of his sleeping potion. Whenever Harry would ask what was wrong, he’d simply stormed out of the room. And when they went to bed, Severus grabbed the blankets and rolled away from Harry.

Harry hadn’t been able to sleep much those last two weeks. And, with his heart so heavy and his mind spinning in despair, he hadn’t been able to write much, either.

Still, Harry had been determined to give Severus his birthday present. And so he had woken up early that day, even earlier than Severus, to prepare him a special breakfast.

And it had all gone downhill from there.

_"What’s all this?"_

Severus hadn’t been pleased, hadn’t even appeared surprised. Instead, it had almost seemed like he was annoyed, irritated that he had been caught and needed to see Harry before he left for work at half past four in the morning.

Harry hadn’t slept at all that night, instead rehearsing exactly what he wanted to say.

_"It’s your birthday. I want this year to be special for you. You’ve done so much for me in the year and some odd months we’ve been together, and while I know things have been a little shaky these past few weeks, I want the next year to –"_

Harry had been planning on describing all the exciting plans he had in store – showing Severus his writing, finally making their relationship public, travelling to all those places they’d always talked about – but he never had the chance. Severus had interrupted him almost immediately.

_"There won’t be another year."_

It had been all of Harry’s worst nightmares come to life. While he’d known this was a possibility, nothing could have prepared him for the harsh pain of hearing Severus say those words out loud. He’d staggered, leaning against the table for support.

_"What went wrong, Severus? Was it something I did? Was it because I spent Boxing Day at the Burrow?"_

He’d begun rambling, embarrassingly, desperate to touch upon whatever crime it had been to turn Severus against him so suddenly. He’d thought perhaps if he landed on the right one, something would relent in Severus’ face, and then Harry’d be able to pounce, to refute the allegations, to make Severus see it was all a big misunderstanding. It was fucking humiliating and degrading and Harry didn’t even recognise himself, but he couldn’t stand the thought of not being with Severus anymore.

_"Don’t be so self-centred, you foolish boy. Not everything is about you. This is simply my realising that, as you said, I am embarking a new year of my life, and I don’t wish to spend it saddled with you."_

If Harry had thought the pain couldn’t grow any worse, he’d been wrong. Sitting in his office now, downing his second glass of Pinot noir, he could still remember how sweaty his palms had grown, how he’d clenched them in his robes so tightly he knew they’d be ruined. He’d found solace with Severus, thought he’d found a companion who understood all he was going through and cared enough about him to help him through it. But instead what he’d been certain of all along had occurred – Severus had grown tired of him.

_"Is there somebody else?"_

Harry hadn’t thought there was. It would have been so entirely out of character for Severus that it didn’t make sense. But given how Harry now seemed to be existing in a hellish dream world, he supposed there was nothing entirely out of the realm of possibility.

_"Do you believe there is somebody else?"_

Ah, the classic Severus Snape evasive response. Harry hadn’t known what to think. Severus hadn’t admitted to an affair, but he also hadn’t appeared to care enough about Harry to deny it. In the end, though, it didn’t really matter.

_"I’m going to be sick."_

Harry had hurried to the sink, not even bothering to reach for a glass. Instead he had turned the water on full blast and dunked his head under the faucet, not even caring that he was likely splattering water all over the kitchen.

_"It would be best if you were gone by the time I returned tonight. I do loathe scenes."_

And that had been the last time Harry had seen Severus Snape, at least until the 17th anniversary of the day this year.

Harry finished off the last of his glass and held his head in his hands. Merlin, it had to have been one of the worst days of his life, and given the horrific days he’d had, that was saying quite a bit. While the Battle of Hogwarts had certainly been traumatic, the agony of 9 January, 2001 struck on a more intimate level. It had left Harry feeling utterly alone, destroyed, and violated.

Even worse, it had confirmed all those fears Harry had about himself. Severus had been a lovely security blanket, but when he was gone, Harry was still weak, useless, and needy. He was pathetic to be so intent to hold onto a man who clearly didn’t give a damn about him. All those years of being entirely starved for affection had clearly caught up to him, and now he was this meek, shrivelling ghost of the Chosen One, the vaunted Gryffindor, the hero of the Wizarding world.

But it had worked out in a way, hadn’t it? Within a fortnight of that day, Harry had found his cottage, and less than two years later he’d published his first book. And while the sad truth was that Harry would still far prefer to have Severus than a writing career, he knew, at least objectively speaking, that he’d done a great deal to be proud of over the years. The critics adored Cathair Duffy, and the fans did as well, at least if sale numbers were to believed. And there was nobody more universally loved than a mysterious, reclusive author.

Yes. He had survived. It may not have been pretty. He may still not be entirely all there; hell, he _knew_ he wasn’t. Somebody could call him entirely fucked up and Harry would only be able to nod in agreement.

But after decades away, he was finally stepping foot in Hogwarts, even though memories of the fallen still caused his heart to race. And he was facing Severus Snape, the man he thought would be the one to finally destroy him. Whatever it was that was going on between them Harry didn’t know; their relationship had always been complicated as fuck. But finally, Harry was _facing_ it, confronting his own life with his presence.

Because at the end of the day, he _was_ still there, and he was doing something with his life. It wasn’t what he’d expected to be doing, and he wasn’t the man that he’d ever though he’d be.

But he was here.

And so, steeling his resolve, he began to once again leaf through the pages of his first-ever writing project. Perhaps he’d been all wrong about the structure of this story, the ultimate story he wanted to share.

Perhaps the end of the story in front of him was actually the beginning.

* * *

"So good of you to deign to join us for a meal," Hermione said, taking a bite out of her salad. "I swear, Harry, it’s been even more difficult to get a hold of you than usual."

"Sorry," Harry said, stuffing a chip in his mouth. "Been busy. I told you about that deadline coming up. And when writing’s going well, I don’t want to risk stepping away."

"Well, it wouldn’t kill your muse to answer your Floo occasionally," Hermione said.

"Floo’s downstairs," Harry said, taking another chip. "I usually write upstairs or outside."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Men."

"Oi," Ron said, helping himself to a chip off Harry’s plate. "Did I not answer you right away when you suggested taking the afternoon off so we could have lunch with Harry here before the concert tonight?"

"You always come running when food’s involved," Hermione said, but there was a fond smile on her face.

Harry grinned and took a long sip of his ale. Admittedly, he hadn’t made it easy for Hermione to track him down the past few weeks, but he truly had been busy writing. Between editing what he’d already written, restructuring the story to fit his new idea, and writing new chapters, he’d been working nearly every hour of the day. He was busier than he could ever remember being.

But he _loved_ it.

This story was special to him in a way his other books couldn’t touch. That wasn’t to say he felt no sense of attachment to his other stories; they each held a very fond place in his heart. But this story was personal. It was _his_.

And, while Severus would likely never know it, it was his, too.

Harry had almost ignored Hermione when she Floo-called him once again today, but at last minute he’d agreed to join her at The Three Broomsticks. He needed to eat before the concert anyway, and it might be nice to enter Hogwarts with the support of his two best friends by his side.

"I’ll need to pick Hugo up from school in a few hours," Hermione said. "He’s so excited about that awful Circe’s Teat group. It’s the only time this year I didn’t have to drag him out of bed in the morning."

"Can’t say I blame him. Have you seen the lead singer?" Ron let out a low whistle.

"Ronald Weasley, if that’s the example you’re going to set –"

But Harry wasn’t listening. At that very moment, Severus walked through the door and headed straight towards them.

"Shh," Harry hissed. "Look who’s coming."

Ron and Hermione both glanced towards the door and then back at Harry. Harry felt remarkably like a nervous schoolboy caught having a forbidden drink by his teacher. Nobody said a word until Severus reached their table.

"Good afternoon," Severus said, looking right at Harry. "Enjoying a bite to eat before the concert?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. You?"

"I’ll be meeting Minerva here in a few minutes," Severus said.

"Would you like to join us while you wait?" Harry asked, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s wide eyes.

"No, thank you," Severus said. "I’ll wait at the bar. I’ll see you all in a few hours?"

And, just like that, he was gone.

"Blimey," Ron said, awed. "He was almost… _polite_."

"Don’t sound so surprised," Hermione said. "Severus has been quite civil since we’ve started planning."

"Yeah, but –"

"Yeah," Harry interrupted. They didn’t really need to go down that road. They were all thinking the same thing; it was unnecessary to voice it out loud.

"The two of you seem to be getting along fairly well," Hermione said cautiously. "Given everything that’s happened between the two of you, that’s quite the accomplishment."

"Well, you know me," Harry said, playing absently with a chip. "Growing up, moving on. That’s life."

She gently squeezed his hand across the table. "I’m proud of you, Harry."

Harry did not know if it was necessarily something to be proud of. Millions of people made it through life every day; the only thing that was remarkable about him doing it was that it took him so many damn years to even begin to confront his fears. Still, it was nice to be sitting here with his two best friends, just like they had in the old days.

"Thanks," he said, and meant it.

* * *

Harry leaned over the balcony around the Great Hall, taking in the scene. He didn’t know the exact number of tickets they had sold, but the room, which had already magically expanded to accommodate the crowd, _still_ looked absolutely packed. Celestina Warbeck was currently introducing the second act, Wicked Jenny, to great applause.

Harry had to admit, up here, above it all, it was actually rather enjoyable. He’d taken one look at the massive crowd gathering in the Great Hall and had immediately told Ron and Hermione he’d meet them after the show. But still, he wanted to attend. This was for Tonks, for Remus. He owed it to them to be here. He’d walked around the castle for a few minutes before realising, miraculously, nobody was up in the balcony. He came across McGonagall, who told him it was due to security concerns, but said he was welcome to watch from up there if he preferred, so long as he was discreet.

It was quite nice. He had the perfect view of the show and could hear everything, but was able to avoid the panic-inducing crowds.

"Perhaps that’s what this whole thing’s about, Potter," he said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Finding that compromise."

He was just humming along to one of Wicked Jenny’s songs, a surprisingly upbeat tune called "Drowning in Love," when he suddenly realised, even without turning around, that he was no longer alone.

Harry could still sense whenever Severus was close. It was a skill he’d developed many years ago, one that he could never quite describe without sounding like a complete lunatic. Severus didn’t carry a particularly strong smell, but he still smelled like Severus. He wasn’t loud, but Harry could pick out the exact cadence of his breathing. Even without seeing him, all of Harry’s senses tingled the second Severus entered the room.

"Nice view."

Harry didn’t turn around. "What are you doing here?"

"I’m not one for crowds myself," Severus said. He was closer to Harry now, standing so close that Harry knew if he reached his arms back they would touch him. "Minerva told me you had found a prime seat up here."

Harry shook his head. "You’re a bastard. Did you know that?"

Harry knew Severus, even after all these years away, and he knew even without looking that Severus had stilled. "Most days, yes."

Harry finally turned around. "How can you be standing here? How can you look at me every day I come to Hogwarts, acting as though everything is entirely normal and we ended on entirely amicable terms, when we _both_ know what happened? You’re driving me fucking insane, you know that? Because I look at you and I listen to you and I think maybe everything that happened was just a dream and I just imagined you completely shutting me out of your life, and then the memory just _slams_ into me and I know that there is no way, no _fucking_ way that anything that terrible can just be a dream. So tell me, again. How can you be standing here?"

Severus’ face was blank. "Would you prefer I leave?"

"I would prefer you told me why you turned into an entirely different person and tossed me out, and yet feel you can talk to me now like nothing happened at all."

Severus frowned slightly. "Would it help if I told you I had my reasons?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, sure. _Reasons_. You’re a grown man, Severus. You’ll have to do better than that."

Severus took one step closer, but froze when he saw Harry take a step back. "Harry. I apologise."

Harry felt his jaw drop. Two things he never thought he’d hear coming from Severus’ lips: his first name again, and an apology. He suppressed the urge to pinch himself.

"I treated you horrifically. I can offer no excuse for that. But I assure you: my intentions are genuine."

"Your… intentions," Harry said slowly. "And what exactly are they?"

"What would you like them to be?" Severus asked.

Truthfully, Harry didn’t know. A part of him – a very large part, truth be told – wanted Severus to admit to him that he still loved him. But all this was happening so quickly. Harry had spent nearly twenty years replaying their last day together in his head, and it still felt like a dagger to the gut. And Severus still hadn’t offered any sort of explanation. Despite how much Harry wanted Severus, he also knew there was still a great deal they needed to work past if they were to have _any_ sort of legitimate relationship, whether that be as friends or… something more.

Harry glanced back at the stage, where Wicked Jenny had just started another song. If somebody had told him a year ago he’d be back at Hogwarts, attending the concert of the year, he would have laughed in their face. And perhaps he was watching from the balcony, but he was still here.

And isn’t that what life was about? Simply taking it one day at a time?

"Watch the concert with me?"

Severus nodded. "Thank you."

They stood side by side, leaning over the ledge of the balcony, not saying a word. Severus was close to Harry, so close that if Harry just moved his right hand ever so slightly it would graze Severus’ fingertips. It all felt so beautifully familiar. Even after nearly two decades, the feeling of Severus’ body so close to his was electrifying. Gradually, Harry relaxed, enjoying both the music and the quiet company.

After two more upbeat songs, the music came to a soft lull. "We want to dedicate this next song to Nymphadora Tonks," the lead singer said. "It’s called ‘A Colourful Winter.’ Tonks, I hope you’re listening!"

The song was a sharp contrast to the band’s earlier songs. While the melody was beautiful, it was also distinctly mournful, as though it had been written for the express purpose of being played at the funeral of somebody who died far, far too young.

"Tonks hated sad songs," Harry said suddenly. "If she were here, she’d be poking fun at it. And yet here we are, listening to it in her honour." He glanced over at Severus. "This felt so right in the beginning. Tonks loved music, would have loved being at a concert like this. She would have been dancing all night. But those people on the stage… they didn’t know her. Half the people in the audience didn’t know her. What makes this concert any different for them than any other concert they’ll go to this year?"

" _We_ know," Severus said. "And with all the proceeds going to The British Werewolf Society, I’m sure she would have been pleased, even with the inclusion of the inappropriately morose song."

Harry nodded. "And I know Teddy thought it was a brilliant idea, but even he… " He froze, realising what he was saying. What right did he have to tell another orphan who had never known his parents that he hadn’t a clue what they would or wouldn’t have liked? He closed his eyes. "I just wonder if we’re doing the right thing."

He felt Severus’ hand cover his, and opened his eyes in shock. He thought perhaps he should pull away, but the touch was completely non-threatening, and, somehow, exactly what Harry needed at that moment.

"You’ve grown up," Severus said, his voice soft with wonder.

Harry snorted. "I still feel the same. Still a bloody mess."

"Aren’t we all?" Severus asked. He paused. "I’m very… impressed with how you’ve handled this entire affair. It could have been a disgrace, your typical Ministry pomp and circumstance, but this is… something I believe those whom we’re honouring would have enjoyed."

"Thank you," Harry said, rather stunned. "I appreciate that."

"I’ll tell you another person you’ve impressed," Severus said almost too quickly. "Somebody you may not have considered: my old friend Irma."

"Irma?" Harry asked, frowning. "The librarian?"

"Irma Crabbe," Severus said. "Her son was your year in school."

Oh, Merlin, how could Harry forget Vincent Crabbe? Harry still had nightmares of Fiendfyre engulfing the Room of Requirement. While he didn’t see Crabbe actually die, at times he wondered if that was worse. Harry’s imagination after the war was remarkably vivid, and the thought of Crabbe, shouting in agony as his own creation burned him alive, had reduced Harry to a shuddering mess on more than a few nights.

"Irma lost both her son and her husband that day," Severus continued. "Though truthfully, she lost them long before that. Vardan, her husband, was a cruel man. He believed everything the Dark Lord preached, and then some. But Vincent… Vincent could have been saved, I believe. He wanted to be a Curse Breaker. It required skill, strategy. He’d be able to see the world." He shook his head. "But, like so many other boys, Vincent’s fatal flaw was that he desperately wanted to impressive his abusive drunk of a father."

Without thinking, Harry squeezed Severus’ hand. It was a familiar story. Severus had admitted several times that he knew he could have ended up like any one of those dead Death Eaters who died in Voldemort's name. He’d been on that path. There’d been no easy way out of it. Only the mercy of another had saved him from that fate. Harry knew the guilt of not being able to sway the minds of all the Slytherin children of Death Eaters had weighed greatly on his mind.

"Irma was certain the Ministry would forget her son," Severus said. His voice was gruffer now, not by much, but enough that Harry noticed. "He was, after all, on his way to becoming a Death Eater himself. He’d attempted to kill. But when he died, he was still just a boy, the son of a woman who was devastated that she had failed him."

"I’m sorry," Harry whispered.

Severus shook his head. "Why should you be sorry? You were the only one who spoke up at that meeting and insisted that _everybody_ be honoured, not simply those who were lucky enough to be on the right side. Vincent Crabbe still died far too young. He was shorted the opportunity to examine his actions in the absence of the chaos of war, to see the error of his ways, to work to make it right. But now, his death means that some good will emerge, even if it’s only ten Galleons in his name to charity."

Severus’ head dropped, and Harry moved his hand to rub comforting circles on his back. This, too, was a familiar position. While Harry always felt he required a disproportionate amount of comfort, there had still been times when the weight of the war threatened to consume Severus as well. Usually Severus tried to keep it safely tucked inside, but even he wasn’t immune to the need for a reassuring touch.

Harry saw so much of himself in Severus. That dejected drop of his shoulders, the look of defeat in his face, the sense of gloom that was damn near coming off of him in waves. Yes, Severus understood. Severus _knew_. It was the curse that they shared.

But it had also been what had always tied them together.

"Oh, Severus," Harry whispered, and stroked Severus’ cheek. Severus tilted his head towards him, a question lurking in the back of his anguished eyes.

It was just like old times. One of them hurting, the other _feeling_ and wanting to do anything to assuage that pain, even if it was just a little bit, even if it was only temporary. Harry felt himself being drawn closer to Severus, wanting him to feel the warmth of another human being who understood, who wanted him to know that there were two of them, and they had both survived.

When his lips brushed over Severus’, it was a quiet victory. For Harry, for Severus, for themselves.

"Oh, Harry," Severus whispered, rubbing his thumbs in small circles around Harry’s temples. "My Harry."

Severus’ words broke the spell, and Harry stiffened. Fuck, he had _just_ been telling himself the changes were coming too quickly, that nothing had been resolved, and that he needed to keep himself safe. This wasn’t taking things one day at a time; this was leaping forward a full year.

"I’m sorry," Harry said. "I really am so, so sorry, Severus. But I can’t."

Not able to bear another look back at Severus, knowing he would be completely lost again, Harry turned on his heel and fled.

* * *

Harry skipped the next committee meeting, writing Percy instead that he was feeling poorly and to please forward him the notes from the afternoon.

Harry wasn’t feeling sick at all. He just simply couldn’t fathom sitting next to Severus for two hours, close enough that he was sure Severus could hear his heart pounding out of his chest, all while attempting to listen to George Weasley explain his plans for the Wicked Weasley Weekend to honour Fred. Instead, he’d spent the day writing outside, taking solace in the scent of the bay.

Of course, as Hermione had always warned him, the problem with skiving off was that it was practically guaranteed to come back to bite him in the arse. Within an hour into what would have been the meeting, Harry was nursing a brutal headache that made writing damn near impossible. Surrendering for the day, Harry retired to bed, hoping to sleep off the pain.

He dreamed of Severus, of course. He dreamed of little else these days. Today’s dream was a familiar one, a favourite memory of Harry’s from the first time Harry had invited Ron and Hermione over to have them meet his mysterious new boyfriend. Much to his surprise, Ron and Hermione had both been incredibly supportive, telling him that it was clear Severus had been helping him, and that was all that mattered. It was one of the most pleasant afternoons of Harry’s life, being surrounded by the people he cared about most, chatting about trivial little things, from Quidditch to which restaurant in London made the best takeaway, leading them to place orders with five different restaurants that night.

"Harry?"

Yes, it had been a thoroughly pleasant afternoon. Harry burrowed further beneath his blankets.

"I brought pho."

Yes, Hermione had made a good case for Vietnamese, Harry remembered. It had been hot and comforting, the perfect meal for a cold autumn night.

Then, suddenly, Harry bolted up in bed. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he was now very much aware that not everything he’d just experienced had only been a dream. Pulling a jumper on over his t-shirt, he hurried down the stairs and found, not much to his surprise, Hermione sitting on his couch.

"There you are," Hermione said. "I was starting to get worried."

"I’m fine," Harry said, smoothing back his hair. "What are you doing here?"

"Percy told us you weren’t feeling well, so I wanted to check in to make sure you were okay," Hermione said, gesturing towards the container that smelled wonderfully like the pho Harry now realised he hadn't simply been dreaming of. "You know I don’t like you here by yourself when you’re sick."

"It’s just a headache," Harry said. "I’m fine, I promise. How long have you been here?"

"Only about an hour," Hermione said. "I hope you don’t mind my coming through the Floo. I thought I heard your voice, but I think you were just talking in your sleep. I didn’t want to wake you, but thought I’d stick around a little while to see if you’d wake up."

Harry nodded. "Well, thanks. But you really didn’t have to. You must have been bored."

"Oh, no," Hermione said. "I did some reading."

"Some…" Harry looked in horror at the table next to the couch, where his manuscript was resting. "Hermione, you didn’t."

"I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist. You know I love your writing."

"Hermione, that’s personal!" Harry said. "It’s not ready yet."

"I’m sorry," Hermione said. "I really am. But Harry, I have to say… that story is exceptional. Truly."

All the anger fled Harry like helium escaping a leaking balloon. He hated anybody seeing his works before he was ready; it had taken years before he grew comfortable with Angela reading them, and he still always dreaded hearing Ron and Hermione's reactions even on his published works. He held this story even closer to his chest, given how very personal the content was. He was especially terrified of not only the public’s reaction, but his friends’. He personally thought it was his best work yet, but that didn’t mean anybody was obligated to agree.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really," Hermione said, smiling fondly. "It’s clear this is a very special story to you. It’s so different from your other stories. There’s a touch of hope in it, and it’s… well, it’s beautiful. I cannot tell you how excited I am to read the entire thing."

"Wow," Harry said. "Thanks, Hermione."

"I only speak the truth," Hermione said. "Although, I have to say: whatever it is that spurred your imagination to create this story, whatever that inspiration was? You hold onto it tightly. I think it’ll do you a world of good."

Harry glanced down at his hands. That was one thing he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do.

"But enough about work," Hermione said. "How’s your headache? Would you like some pho? I brought chopsticks."

Harry joined Hermione on the couch. "Yeah," he said. "That’d be great."

* * *

There was no hiding on April Fool’s. Every corner and cranny was decked out in colour and chaos. Fireworks burst continuously in the air, filling the castle with glittering fire-breathing dragons and dazzling fuchsia Catherine wheels. Students dashed through the corridors, some evidently wearing Headless Hats, which did make Harry chuckle. The entire event reminded Harry a great deal of Fred and George’s rebellion all those years ago, but much to his surprise, the memory didn’t fill him with grief. He was sure Fred would have considered escape from Hogwarts with George one of the greatest accomplishments of his life, no matter how long he lived, and it pleased Harry to be able to honour him in this way.

"You may wish to duck out of the way, Potter," McGonagall said, hurrying past. "I’m beginning to wonder if we erred by only hiring a dozen Healers to patrol. Simpson! That is _not_ the approved use of that wand!"

Harry laughed and moved towards a table of food. He carefully avoided the custard pie, knowing it would likely propel itself towards his face the second he took a slice. Likewise, he passed over all the sweets – the last thing he needed was to turn into a canary with a four-ton tongue. Instead, he settled on some rather pedestrian-looking popcorn. When he popped one in his mouth and didn’t immediately start jumping around like a kernel in a flame, he grabbed another handful.

"Potter."

Harry closed his eyes. Of fucking course. It was too much of a madhouse to even tell who was in the castle, but naturally Severus had been able to find him.

"You can’t close your eyes in here," Severus said, pushing Harry slightly to the side. Harry opened his eyes and looked up, only to see a Fanged Frisbee whirl right past his head.

"Thanks," Harry muttered, and took another handful of popcorn. "Have you been here long?"

"About an hour," Severus said. "I doubt I’ll survive another. I’m still in shock Minerva is allowing such an event to take place."

"She always did have a soft spot for the twins," Harry said. "Besides, it’s just one weekend."

" _Just_ a weekend," Severus said, rolling his eyes. "If there aren’t two dozen students in St Mungo’s before supper I’ll eat my hat."

Harry grinned. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a hat."

"There’s a great many things you haven’t seen."

Harry felt the back of his neck burn. They were approaching a dangerous territory. What’s more, being this close to Severus after their last encounter was making Harry feel rather … _bold_. It was taking every ounce of willpower not to take him in his arms and kiss him, but with far more intensity and passion than he had last month.

"I have to admit some surprise you’re eating the food," Severus said.

"Well, I haven’t blown up yet," Harry said. "I think the popcorn’s safe, but I’d definitely avoid the rest."

Severus hummed, and took a single piece of popcorn from the bowl and held it up to his nose, sniffing cautiously. He then popped it in his mouth, rolling it around, apparently still trying to detect any nefarious ingredients. Then, deeming it safe, he reached for another handful. "It’s likely the only thing I’ll be able to eat before I make my escape," he said.

Harry nodded. Merlin, he was afraid to even open his mouth; he didn’t feel like he quite had control over his tongue. He had all types of questions he wanted to ask Severus – what he’d been doing with himself the past two decades, what he really felt about Harry, why he sent him away in the first place. He half-hoped Severus would walk away and disappear in the sea of revellers, but he knew he wouldn’t be that lucky.

"I wasn’t sure you’d attend today’s event," Severus said. "When you didn’t attend the last committee meeting, I thought perhaps this was one event that would strike you as still being too difficult, given your close friendship with Mr Weasley."

"No, I wanted to be here," Harry said. "I have no doubts about this one. Fred never would have missed this, and I couldn’t either."

Severus nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by George Weasley clapping Harry on the shoulder.

"There you are!" George exclaimed. "Good to see you, Harry! Did you see the fountain? Spouting bubbles! Tell you a secret – if you try to pop one, you’ll be sucked right in and float to the ceiling! Brilliant."

Harry grinned. "Have you tried it yourself yet?"

"Of course!" George said, sounding scandalised. "How dare you think I’d let anybody else have all the fun first?"

George’s smile faltered, and Harry froze. It was clear exactly where their minds had gone – once upon a time, Fred and George would have been arguing over who would be the first to try their new experimental products.

"You know, every time I see a flash of red hair in this crowd I think it’s him," George said. "Twenty years later, and I still expect to see him coming around the corner. I guess it never really goes away." He drew a deep breath, and seemed to be making an effort to broaden his smile. "But I know he would have loved this. Thanks for doing this, both of you. It’s… it’s how he would have wanted it."

"Of course," Harry said softly.

"Well, I’m off," George said brightly. "Business to see to!" He glanced back at Severus and Harry. "Kernels of Truth, eh? Bet you two are having a fun conversation. No hexing!"

He started to turn around, but Severus grabbed him by the arm. "Kernels of Truth?" he asked, his voice low.

"Oh, yeah!" George said. "New invention. One minute of truth telling guaranteed for every kernel you eat! Harmless fun."

"Harmless –"

"Let it go," Harry said quietly and, much to his relief, Severus did, and George scampered away, cheering and passing out random items from his pockets to passing students.

"Well, then," Harry said.

"How much popcorn did you eat?" Severus asked.

"I don’t know," Harry said. "A couple of handfuls… so maybe thirty pieces or so?"

Severus nodded. "I only had one. I should be safe in about ten minutes. We should go our separate ways, as to avoid embarrassing ourselves."

"No," Harry said quickly. "I don’t want to do that."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "I suppose I don’t need to ask you if you mean that."

"We need to talk," Harry said. "Please."

Severus sighed. "I suppose we do. Would you like to go somewhere more quiet?"

"I don’t know if a quiet place exists in the castle today," Harry said.

"Point," Severus agreed. Instead, he cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm. "Very well. Where would you like to begin?"

"What happened?" Harry said immediately. "On your birthday. What changed that made you throw me out?"

Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You realise I could likely resist the effects of whatever Weasley contaminated the popcorn with?"

"So could I," Harry pointed out. "But you won’t. Now tell me."

"Very well," Severus said. "Molly Weasley."

"Molly," Harry repeated, confused. "What does she have to do with it?"

"She entered my shop the day after Boxing Day," Severus continued. He looked supremely uncomfortable, as though he wanted to be anywhere else in the world, but he forced himself to continue. "It was fairly crowded, but she headed directly towards me. She wanted to ask me about the cloak you wore to the Burrow on Boxing Day. Apparently she had seen me purchase it in Hogsmeade a month prior and was able to connect the dots."

So Molly _had_ known about his relationship with Severus. Some of the anger Harry had felt about her blatant attempts to marry him off to Ginny recoiled in his belly, burning hot. When he had thought she was simply misguided and hopeful, he’d been able to mostly pass it off. But now that he knew she was aware he’d been seeing Severus…

"She was not pleased, as you may have surmised," Severus continued. "She blamed me for your… the difficult state your life was in. I was reminding you too much of the war. I wasn’t good for your self-esteem. I was the reason you quit the Academy. My very presence in your life was holding you back from recovering."

"But that’s –"

"She meant well," Severus interrupted. "I was livid, but I knew that even at the time. And there was nothing she said that I hadn’t wondered myself. Besides, you cannot deny that I was a key reason why you quit the Academy."

"But I wanted to!"

Severus held up a hand. "You asked me to explain, and I am doing so. As I said, she was filled the righteous indignation that befits a Weasley matriarch, and I was furious at her accusations, as well as the fact I knew there was some truth in them. And then…" He paused. "You truly wish to know all of it?"

"Yes," Harry said immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tell me."

"She threatened to announce to the entire shop that I had taken advantage of you if I did not agree to break off our… arrangement. It was her trump card: she thought I would agree because I would not want to risk the additional scrutiny of my life so soon after my trial, and that the reason nobody knew was because I was attempting to keep you as my _pet_."

"But you –"

"I couldn’t risk it, Harry," Severus said. "The state you were in… the public’s reaction would have been severe. I couldn’t be so selfish as to allow you to endure that, especially given what a difficult two years it had already been for you, simply because I wanted to keep you for myself."

"So you agreed," Harry said flatly. "Molly threatened you and you gave in. And then you didn’t even _tell_ me."

"I didn’t see any other option," Severus said. "Believe me, Harry. I genuinely thought I was choosing the lesser of two evils. And while I certainly harbour no great fondness for the Weasleys, the last thing I wished to do was spoil the relationship between you and the closest thing you’ve known to a mother."

"But you had to know I would have been…" _Upset. Devastated. Traumatised._

"You had grown so much stronger in recent months," Severus said, sounding exhausted. "I had hoped you’d move on quickly."

"I didn’t," Harry said. "I was fucking miserable, Severus. I spent twenty years wondering what I had done wrong, if you _had_ actually cheated on me –"

"I didn’t," Severus interrupted.

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Then why did you let me believe you did?"

"I wanted you to hate me again," Severus said. "I thought it would make the separation easier."

"And I suppose that was why you were such a bastard those last two weeks?"

"In addition to being a futile attempt at self-preservation," Severus said. "I wanted to hate you as well. I tried to remind myself of all the reasons you drove me mad, to convince myself that you didn’t belong in my life."

Harry felt tears prickle his eyes. "Did I?"

Severus sighed. "While we were separated, I told myself that it was evident that you didn’t need me in your life. But the truth was, I very much needed you in mine."

"I love you," Harry whispered. It hurt to say the words out loud, but after twenty years apart, and finally learning the reason why they’d been torn apart, they were aching to be said. "I never stopped. Even when I wanted to."

Severus closed his eyes. "Harry…"

"I need to know how you feel," Harry said. "Or at least, how you felt. Even if you don’t love me now, I need to know that it wasn’t all a lie."

"Oh, Harry," Severus said. "This… this unavoidable thing between us, this inexplicable link that seems to continuously draw us together… how can that be anything but love? You are now, and always have been, the single most important force in my life."

Harry ran his hands through his hair, as though the action would somehow dispel the whirlwind of thoughts spinning through his mind. He finally had all the answers he’d been desperately seeking for years. He was furious with Molly for ruining the best relationship of his life, frustrated he and Severus had gone so long without communicating, and, frankly, rather peeved at Severus for deceiving him in the first place, no matter how well intentioned he had been.

But the most prevailing emotion was relief, relief so strong it threatened to nearly knock him over with the strength of a tidal wave. Severus still loved him. Severus had never stopped loving him. For so many years, Harry had wondered if his relationship with Severus had actually been a side-effect of his damaged mind, the same mind that replayed memories of the war obsessively and never allowed him to escape from its clutches. It could have been. His mind was entirely fucked up; it was entirely possible that his romance with Severus could have been a figment of his overwrought imagination.

_But it wasn’t_.

It _wasn’t_ just in his head. It was real.

It _is_ real.

"I want to kiss you," Harry said suddenly. "Would that be okay?"

A slow smile spread across Severus’ face. "Yes," he said, and Harry knew he was relieved as well. "I wish that you would."

Harry stepped closer to Severus and, tentatively, wrapped his arms around Severus’ waist. Severus looked down, then slowly and with the utmost care, tilted Harry’s chin upwards with his finger.

It felt like coming home. Harry melted into the embrace, loving the familiar sensation of being safe in these strong arms. Finally, after feeling like he’d been missing a critical part of his soul for so many years, he felt complete. When Severus held him, Harry knew that he was the single-most important thing in his world. It was intoxicating. Harry didn’t know how he could have let Severus push him aside, how he ever could have believed Severus didn’t love him. Severus was right: their bond was unavoidable, unforgettable, irreplaceable. There could be no denying it.

When they parted, breathless, Harry rested his head on Severus’ shoulder. "That was even better than I remembered."

"I agree," Severus said, stroking Harry’s hair.

"But don’t think I’m going to let you get away with any of that again," Harry said. "I don’t care what your reasons are. If you think I’m going to sit down and let you lie to me, no matter _what_ the reason… seriously, I don’t care if Voldemort rises from the dead and is doing the cha-cha in a leopard-print thong and tells you that you need to dump me or else he's going to murder me. I’m not going to forgive that."

"I wouldn’t expect you to. I realise this is far more than I deserve." He paused. "Where in the world did you come up with that visual?"

"I’ve had a lot of time by myself," Harry said. "I’ve become rather creative."

Severus kissed the top of Harry’s head. "I look forward to seeing more of your creative side."

Harry smiled and pulled Severus closer, finally content.

* * *

"So, you’re back to snogging Snape?"

Harry spat out his ale. "Excuse me?"

"No sense lying to me, Harry," Ron said, casually sipping at his own drink. "I know you too well."

"But I didn’t –"

"Hermione and I saw you sneaking away from Hogwarts last week, looking rather flushed and ruffled," Ron said. "And judging by the way Snape looked, I don’t think it was due to one of George’s pranks."

"Well, it kind of was," Harry muttered. Honestly, he was rather relieved. He’d been planning on telling Ron and Hermione about Severus soon, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Apparently his lack of subtlety was his saving grace.

Ron laughed. "So. The great Gryffindor-Slytherin Romance, take two, eh?"

Harry sighed. "It sounds so stupid when you say it like that."

"That’s not my intention, honestly," Ron said. "It’s just… you and Snape. That’s always big."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I know."

"Listen, Harry," Ron said quietly. "I know, somehow, you and Snape really worked well together. But I know how it ended. I don’t know if you ever fully recovered."

"You make me sound like a love struck damsel," Harry grumbled. "I _did_ have some other issues I needed to sort out. Still do, if I'm being honest."

"I know," Ron said quickly. "Believe me, I do. And I know in the beginning Snape was actually really helping you there. It’s not even hard for me to admit that anymore, because it was true. But when he kicked you out… it’s like you took twenty steps back. And you can tell me to shut up," he said more loudly. "And you can tell me it’s none of my business. But you’re my best friend, and I just want to make sure you’re okay."

"I’m okay, Ron, honestly," Harry said.

"Well, I know you are _now_ ," Ron said. "You’re all shag-happy. But have you thought about what would happen if it didn’t work out again?"

"Well, for one, we haven’t shagged yet," Harry said. "For another, why are you assuming this isn’t going to work?"

"No offense, Harry," Ron said. "But you didn’t end on the best of terms last time, and he never even told you why he turned back into his old bastard self."

Harry drew a deep breath. "Well, actually, he did. And really, it’s all thanks to George."

Something must have shown on Harry’s face, because Ron’s turned rather apprehensive. "Oh? How’s that?"

By the time Harry finished sharing everything Severus had told him after eating several Kernels of Truth, a vein above Ron’s left eye was throbbing. "I might actually kill her," Ron muttered. "For fuck’s sake, I might actually – "

"Don’t, Ron," Harry interrupted. "Seriously."

"Harry, do you know what she did?" Ron asked, his voice rising. "That is… it’s so petty. And selfish. And that fucked you up for _years_. Are you seriously not upset?"

"I am," Harry said quickly. "When Severus first told me, I was livid. I mean, it was a betrayal. But… she didn’t know what I was… what I am like. She blamed that on Severus, but it was me. If I were normal, it wouldn’t have broken me as much as it had."

"You _are_ normal, Harry," Ron said fiercely. "Don’t talk like that."

"I’m really not," Harry said. "Never have been. But that’s okay. It’s just… maybe if I had been honest with people in the beginning, she never would have thought to do what she did. Even after Severus was cleared of his charges, people still didn’t trust him. And by hiding our relationship, I didn’t exactly do him any favours."

Ron shook his head. "You are taking this far more reasonably than you have any right to. Seriously, I’m this close to leaving right now to have a go at her."

"It’s just not worth it anymore," Harry said. "My relationship with your mum is done, and while that was once devastating, by now, I’m used to it. And anything I say now isn’t going to change what happened twenty years ago. And who knows? Maybe if Severus and I work out this time, it won’t make that much of a difference. I mean, losing all that time we could have had together would sting, but wizards live a long time, right? Maybe twenty years only feels like one or two by the time we’re past our first century."

"Well, maybe you’re not pissed, but I sure am," Ron said, finishing the last of his drink. "I’m still going to tell her off. _Not_ as harshly as I want to," he said, taking in Harry’s warning glance. He shook his head. "Seriously, how did you become so level-headed and rational?"

Harry grinned. "I don’t know. I think I’m still just in a daze about the whole thing. Maybe it’ll fade in a week or so." He took another sip of his ale. "But you know what? I really hope it doesn’t. Being back with Severus… even knowing everything that happened, I just feel so much better. I’m happier. I don’t feel so entirely lost. Maybe things like potential mothers-in-law trying to pair me up with their daughters is just too little of a thing to waste my energy on. I have somewhere positive to use my energies now. Just seems stupid to dwell on painful parts of my past I can’t change."

Ron blinked. "That is… I can’t even remember the last time I heard you talk like that, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "It’s not over yet," he said. "I’m not that naïve. I know right now I’m in a happy bubble. When I think about Hogwarts, my heart still races. I still see blood and dead eyes. I still have nightmares every night, nightmares I know should have vanished by now. But now I also have hope. I have somebody who anchors me, who understands me, and who I can help, too. And so when I have those nightmares, I know there’s going to be somebody there waiting for me. I can’t tell you how much that helps me."

Ron nodded slowly. "Well, I hope it works out. Honestly, I do. And I can tell you Hermione feels exactly the same way I do."

"Thanks," Harry said. "That means a lot."

"So, what’s next?" Ron asked. "Going on romantic dates and such?"

Harry snorted. "Not quite. I actually haven’t even seen him since April Fool’s. He had to attend a conference in New Zealand. But we’ve been writing." He smiled. "It’s actually kind of sweet."

"Sweet, eh?" Ron said, raising his hand for another drink. "Listen, you’ll get me to say that Severus is good for you, and that he’s a calming influence, but I don’t think I’ll ever believe he’s sweet."

"Fair enough," Harry chuckled. "But I’m seeing him tonight. He’s cooking me supper."

"Just like old times, then," Ron said. "Well, good luck to you."

"Thanks," Harry said, and finished the last of his drink. Then he reached across the table, lightly gripping Ron’s wrist. "Thanks."

A surprisingly gentle smile crossed Ron’s face. Harry had only ever seen it directed at Rose and Hugo, and it was somewhat startling to see it facing him. "Any time."

* * *

Harry drew a deep breath and knocked on Severus’ front door. He couldn’t help it; he was nervous. Despite what he had told Ron, there were some fears that remained. While there was no denying passion remained between himself and Severus, he was well aware that a great deal of time had passed. While they shared a common past, there was now nearly twenty years of difference between them. What if it was too much?

Fortunately, he didn’t have to stay outside alone with his thoughts for very long. The door swung open, and Severus welcomed him in. "Right on time," Severus said.

"I’ve become very responsible in my old age," Harry said, following Severus inside.

Severus snorted. "Would you care for anything to drink? Wine?"

"I’ll stick to water for now, thanks," Harry said.

"Suit yourself," Severus said. "Would you like to wait in the living room while I pour?"

Harry nodded. He was actually glad to have a few minutes to study the house on his own. He was curious how Severus had marked the passage of time in his home. Not that he expected Severus to paint his living room red or invest in large abstract paintings for the hallways, but he thought for sure there would be _something_. Something, a scrape of paint chipped from a wall or a knickknack on a shelf, something that had been added to the house in all the years Harry was away. There had to be something unfamiliar, something to call out to Harry – _"You missed this! Time didn’t stop. He moved on without you!"_

But to Harry’s surprise, the house appeared to be exactly the same. The living room was still painted a basic cream, entirely stark save for the several large bookshelves taking up one entire side of the room. The scuffed-up floorboards looked as scratched as ever. The furniture, a charcoal grey couch and two mismatched armchairs in front of the fireplace, looked exactly how Harry remembered. And, right on the mantel…

The framed photograph of himself and Severus that Hermione had taken so many years ago.

"Hello," Harry said quietly, leaning in to look at it more closely. "Have you been here all this time?"

"Your water."

Harry whirled around, startled. "Thanks," he said, feeling his face heat.

"Does the house meet your standards?" Severus asked. The amusement in his tone, as well as his familiar smirk, comforted Harry.

"You didn’t change much," Harry said, gratefully taking the glass of water.

"There didn’t seem to be much sense in changing it," Severus said, taking a seat on the left side of the couch, the same seat he always took. "What did you expect me to do? Go on a mad wallpapering spree?"

Harry grinned. "Stranger things have happened."

"Indeed." Severus took a sip from his own glass of water. "Are you planning on standing all night, or would you like to take a seat?"

Harry paused. He couldn’t help but feel this was some kind of test. The safe option would be to sit in one of the two armchairs by the fire. But that was never where he had sat before. No, his usual spot was on the couch next to Severus. He’d always started off on the right, but then would gradually shift closer and closer to Severus. Sometimes he’d curl up and rest his head on his shoulder, sometimes he would sit with his back to Severus’ side…

The position was variable, but the location was constant.

As was, apparently, his innate talent for over-thinking every damn thing in his life.

"Sure," Harry said, and took his usual spot on the couch.

There was no mistaking the pleased gleam in Severus’ eyes, but neither mentioned it. Instead, Harry asked him about his trip to New Zealand. It was a successful strategic move, Harry thought. It was a safe, neutral topic for them to ease into conversation, while also being something that Severus could talk about for hours.

Merlin, Harry had missed this. There was something so simultaneously exciting and calming to be here with Severus, listening him to speak so passionately about his interests. Harry might only be able to understand every other sentence or so, but his obvious enthusiasm was infectious.

"I fear I’ve been monopolising the conversation," Severus said suddenly. "Tell me about how you’ve been spending your time, other than making the bespectacled Weasley rue the day he agreed to preside over the committee?"

Harry laughed. "Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve become a bit of a hermit. Ron and Hermione considered themselves lucky if I visited once a month."

"That busy writing your novels?"

Harry gaped. "How did you know?"

"How could I _not_ know?" Severus asked, a smug smile on his face. "A mysterious new writer who insists on absolute secrecy, despite the massive success of his stories, and the only thing we know of him is that he lives in a cottage in the middle of nowhere? Who writes of wars that no Muggle could fathom, and describes the aftermath so convincingly it’s impossible to believe he hasn’t gone through the hell himself? Whose characters speak of their experiences the exact same way I’ve heard you speak of yours, time and time again?" He shook his head. "Honestly, Harry. You didn’t _truly_ believe I wouldn’t find out."

"I didn’t realise people in the Wizarding world even read them," Harry said. He paused. "Wait. Did you actually read them?"

"Of course I actually read them," Severus said, sounding vaguely insulted. He waved his hand towards the bookshelves. "Look over there, if you’re so concerned."

Not that Harry didn’t believe him, but he still needed to see for himself. Sure enough, there were all of his novels, neatly lined up in the order they’d been published, on the third shelf of the bookcase closest to the stairwell. "Wow," he said. "The complete works of Cathair Duffy."

"That’s another thing," Severus said. "Choosing a pseudonym where the first name translates to ‘battle man,’ and the surname to ‘black peace’? Honestly, if it was anonymity you were seeking, you’d be better off with something like ‘John Smith.’"

"How was I supposed to know you knew Gaelic?" Harry asked, still taking in the books. He pulled one out of the shelf, his second effort, and flipped through the pages. While Severus always kept his books in pristine condition, it was clear he had read this one multiple times. "I didn’t, if you may recall, think you’d even be interested in knowing how I was spending my time."

"Fair enough," Severus said.

"Did you like them?" Harry asked, rejoining Severus on the couch, the book still in his hands.

"I did," Severus said. "Very much so. Although I will admit they’re difficult to read, knowing you’re the one writing them."

"Ron and Hermione say the same thing," Harry said. "Ron won’t even read them anymore."

"I can’t say I’m surprised," Severus said. "It was sheer will-power that allowed me to finish the first."

"That bad, huh?"

"To see in black and white how greatly in pain the person you care for most in the world is, and to know a great deal of it is your fault? It’s certainly no walk in the park."

"But you still read them," Harry noted.

"Indeed," Severus said. "It was the least I could do. Besides, I … needed to know."

"How I was doing?" Harry asked quietly.

Severus nodded. "I’d hoped that, as the years went by, some of the foreboding in the novels would ease away, that I’d see you had found peace, however delayed."

"I’m not that good a writer," Harry said. "I can only write what I know. My imagination is limited by my experience."

"Indeed," Severus said. He turned away, his face now facing the fire. It was only at that moment that Harry was able to see just how the years had worn on Severus. The lines on his face were more pronounced, and while he still squared his shoulders back, it now appeared as though he was only managing to do so with herculean effort. He looked tired, drained, and drowning in years of guilt.

"I’m working on another book right now," Harry said.

"Is that so?" Severus didn’t look away from the fire.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I think you might like it." He reached out, brushing back Severus’ hair. "There’s … hope."

Severus seemed to melt into Harry’s touch. "Oh?"

"Yes," Harry said, and gentled turned Severus’ face towards his. "Definitely."

This kiss was different from the ones they’d shared last week. The kiss then had been one of desperation, as though each wanted to make sure they weren’t just imagining being back in each other’s arms. It had been fierce, frenetic, filled with a desire to make up for nearly two decades apart. They needed to prove that there was still passion there, that they still felt a romantic connection, that they wanted each other.

There was nothing to prove with this kiss. Instead, it spoke of a promise and potential, a reminder of the comfort they’d once found so easily with each other. While their first kiss had been a dogged effort to seize the moment, in case it passed and they lost their one opportunity to reunite, this one was to reassure the other that they were here, they were together, and they understood. There was a future to be had, no matter how fragile it appeared. They would face it together, nurture it, and it would survive, just as they had, all these years.

A buzzer sounded, and they parted with a gasp. "Damn," Severus muttered. "That’s the duck."

"Duck?" Harry asked. He was still somewhat dazed from the kiss, and wasn’t certain he had heard properly. "You hate duck. You called it a chicken who’s too stupid to know it doesn’t belong in the water."

"Well, if I’m going to eat a bird, no sense in killing the intelligent ones," Severus said with a sniff. "Besides, I thought you enjoyed roasted duck."

"I do," Harry said quickly. "It’s been years since I’ve had it. Never made much sense to make it for just myself."

"Then I’ve chosen wisely," Severus said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry smiled.

Yes, a promising future was within reach.

* * *

Just like his house, Severus’ shop hadn’t changed much over the years. Cauldrons still lined the far wall, a large cabinet behind the counter safely stored the most potent potions, and herbs dangled from the ceiling. It still smelled dank and earthy, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odour. It was distinctly Severus. Harry smiled at the thought.

"Ah, there you are," Severus said, coming out from behind the counter to greet Harry. "Allow me a moment to close up, and then we can go to supper." He pointed his wand at his throat and cast an Amplifying Charm. "Attention, esteemed customers. If you wish to purchase anything today, you have exactly ten seconds to bring your wares to the counter. If you are not purchasing anything, you have seven seconds to make it to the door before I forcibly evict you. Ten. Nine. Eight."

Harry chuckled as the last few remaining customers in the story hurried to the counter to pay for their purchases. Severus clearly had not lost his touch.

Within two minutes, they were the only two left in the shop. Severus locked the door and then, finally, kissed Harry. "I’ve been thinking about that all day," Severus said.

"You could’ve done it when I first came in," Harry said.

"Really," Severus said, raising his eyebrows. "I have to say, I’m surprised."

"Well, obviously what we did last time didn’t work," Harry said, raising his chin. "I think this time we should do some things differently."

"Indeed," Severus said. He leaned in and kissed Harry again. "One moment. I have a few things to take care of in the back room, and then I promise we’ll have supper. It shouldn’t be more than ten minutes."

With Severus gone, Harry peered around the shop. Yes, it looked nearly exactly the same as Harry remembered. It was nice to be back here again, at the place where it all started. It was comforting, somehow. And –

The doorknob jangled, and Harry whirled around, his wand at the ready. "We’re closed," he said loudly.

"Put your wand away, Potter. This isn’t your shop."

Harry blinked at the man standing before him. He had broader shoulders than when Harry had last seen him, and his hairline was threatening to recede, but it was clear that Draco Malfoy had retained that quintessential air of self-importance that Harry had come to associate with his family. "Malfoy?"

"I really don’t understand why you have any right to sound so surprised," Malfoy said. He held up a small gold key. "I’m the one who’s here every week. I’m the only person Severus has entrusted with a key. And you? You, Potter, disappeared for twenty years."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He knew Malfoy had ended up not being the evil berk he always thought he was, but he still didn’t like him. And he certainly didn’t like what he was implying. "What exactly are you trying to say, Malfoy?"

"Nothing," Malfoy said, tucking the key back into his robes. "Why? Is your guilty conscience finally making an appearance?"

"I’m not interested in arguing," Harry said. "And it’s clear that’s all you want to do. So why don’t you do us a favour and leave?"

"Us?" Malfoy asked with a laugh. " _Us_? You actually think you and Severus _have_ something? Oh, no, Potter. I won’t allow that."

"Well, then it’s a good thing it’s not up to you, isn’t it?" Harry said, gripping his wand. He wondered just how close Severus actually was with Malfoy these days, and if he’d mind too terribly if Harry hexed him across the room.

"What, you think with a few kisses everything’s going to be sunshine and roses again?" Malfoy asked. "Oh, I know, Potter. I know your past with Severus, and I know you’ve rekindled your little affair. But I also know it’s going nowhere."

"You know nothing," Harry spat. Merlin, he didn’t want to admit it, but Malfoy was getting under his skin. He could feel his heart racing to dangerous levels, could feel his palms sweating. And while he desperately wanted to hold his own, to prove to Severus he wasn’t some frail schoolboy who couldn’t fight his own battles, he so very much wished Severus would come out of the back room and tell Malfoy to bugger off.

"I know you destroyed him," Malfoy said in a low voice. "I know you left and he nearly killed himself. Would have succeeded, too, if I hadn’t been there. Because _I_ didn’t leave to lick my wounds. I survived the war, and I _lived_ with what I did. I didn’t run away and hide from it like some little coward, leaving behind the one person who actually gave a damn."

Harry’s eyesight was growing hazy, so intense was his rage. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he was just vaguely aware that his breathing was coming very fast, but he didn’t even care. How _dare_ Malfoy. How fucking _dare_ he.

And how dare _Severus_?

"I apologise, I couldn’t quite contain – ah, Draco." Severus emerged from the backroom. He caught sight of Harry’s expression and placed a hand on his shoulder. While Harry wanted to flinch away, at the moment, he was more concerned at proving Malfoy wrong than expressing his fury that Severus had apparently told Malfoy lies about their relationship. "I left a message with your secretary yesterday. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make our usual supper this evening."

"Because of Potter," Malfoy said. It wasn’t a question.

Severus squeezed Harry’s shoulder, and Harry bit his lip. "Yes," Severus said. "I’ll write with another time to reschedule."

"Fine," Malfoy said, and turned on his heel. He left without saying another word, slamming the door behind him.

"He always had a flair for dramatics," Severus muttered. He turned to Harry. "You’re upset."

"He said I abandoned you," Harry said. "That I had somehow wronged _you_. Why would you tell him that?"

Severus sighed. "I didn’t."

"Really?" Harry asked. "Because if you didn’t come out in five minutes, you would have been cleaning up our intestines off your floor."

"I don’t doubt it," Severus said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Draco is as loyal and protective as a mother dragon. He also, for whatever reason, harbours some romantic delusions for me. He believes what he chooses to believe."

"You two didn’t –"

"Of course not!" Severus sounded disgusted at the very thought. "I would never. However, I will admit he’s been a good friend over the years."

"Yeah, when he’s not trying to kill me," Harry muttered.

"Draco found me at a difficult time," Severus said. "I do owe him a great deal. There is a great deal of shared history between us."

"Right, yeah," Harry said, looking away. "And I’ve been gone. I understand."

"Harry," Severus said, reaching for Harry’s hand. "You and I could have been separated for a century and I would feel the same. Draco and I will always have a friendship. But what I feel for him doesn’t come anywhere close to the intensity of affection I have for you."

"Yeah, well, your _friend_ wants to murder me for being anywhere near you," Harry said.

"I’ll have a word with him," Severus said. "As I said, he can be rather possessive, and he’s likely in a state of shock at the moment. I fear he’d grown comfortable in his belief you’d never return."

"I’d like to give him a shock," Harry said under his breath.

Severus snorted. "You sound more like yourself." He rubbed his thumb in small, comforting circles over Harry’s hand. "You believe me? We don’t need to stop by Weasley’s for some Kernels of Truth?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah, I guess." He turned to face Severus. "But if he does anything like that again, I’ll hex him. And I won’t say I’m sorry."

"I’d be right behind you throwing hexes of my own," Severus said immediately.

Harry smiled. "You’re different too, you know. You never used to tell me how you felt. I mean, I knew… but then when it all ended, I was left wondering if I had imagined it all."

"I know," Severus said quietly. "That won’t happen again. I don’t want there to be a shred of doubt."

"Good," Harry said. "I like this new future."

Severus pushed back his fringe, tracing the line of his scar. "As do I," he said, and kissed him.

* * *

Supper was at a small bistro in Muggle London. They attracted little attention, for which Harry was grateful. While he was being honest when he told Severus he didn’t want their relationship to be a secret, after that encounter with Malfoy, Harry was still a bit rattled and wasn’t quite ready to dive into the deep end just yet.

"Would you like to see what they’re offering for pudding?" Harry asked.

"We could," Severus said slowly. "Or we could go back to my house. I do believe I have some things there that would serve well as … pudding."

Harry swallowed. Severus’ intent could not be any plainer. And, what’s more, Harry _wanted_ it. There was nothing holding him back, nothing except the lingering fear that perhaps Severus truly didn’t want him.

"We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with," Severus said quickly. "Even if you simply want to sit by the fire."

"We’re sitting by the fire here," Harry pointed out.

"True," Severus said. "But I’ll admit it gave me unexpected pleasure simply to see you in my house again."

Harry smiled. "It was nice to be back. It still feels like home."

"Good," Severus said. He tilted his head. "Pudding?"

"Yeah," Harry said. He pulled some bills out of his wallet and set them down on the table. Then, before Severus could protest, he grabbed him by the wrist and Disapparated them both.

"You certainly know how to make an exit," Severus said when they had landed back in his living room. "You _do_ realise there were Muggles there, yes?"

"Nobody was paying attention. I checked." He reached up and pulled Severus’ head close to his. "Besides, I didn’t want to lose my nerve."

"Your nerve to do what?" Severus asked, his voice low.

"This," Harry said, and kissed him hard.

Fuck, Harry had been aching to do this all night. This entire night had been an intoxicating mix of soul-tingling nostalgia and exciting new discoveries. How many times had Harry stopped by Severus’ shop before they headed out to supper, all before ending up a tangled mass of sweaty limbs on top of Severus’ sheets? It felt familiar, it felt right, it felt the way it was meant to be.

But it was _more_ than that. Harry felt more powerful – he finally knew exactly how Severus felt about him, and he knew that he was important. Fuck, it just felt _good_ to know that even after nearly twenty years had passed, even after their acrimonious split, that Severus _still_ wanted him as much as Harry wanted him. _This unavoidable thing between us, indeed._

Somehow they made it up the stairs and into Severus’ bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing along the way. Harry gasped as Severus worked kisses down his throat, apparently having not forgotten exactly where Harry longed to be touched.

"You’ll have to tell me what you want," Severus said, his voice low. "Tell me _exactly_ what you want, and I’ll do it."

"Your mouth," Harry gasped. "I want it on me."

"Is that all?" Severus asked. "Just my mouth on you? Any particular spot?"

"Yes, right – ah, there!"

Severus was kneeling now, his lips drawing closer and closer to where Harry wanted him most. But still, Harry didn’t even feel the desire to rush him. It felt so fucking good, Snape kissing him all over, never taking his eyes off of him.

"Anything else?" Severus asked. He reached his hand around Harry’s balls, cupping them gently.

"Lick them," Harry said, and groaned when Severus immediately complied. "Yes, that’s it. Just like that."

Fuck, Severus looked amazing. It _was_ amazing. At this very moment, Harry could hardly believe that not that long ago he was convinced he would never be in this position again. Severus on his knees, fairly _worshipping_ Harry’s cock. Yes, for Severus had finally taken Harry’s prick in his mouth, just the tip, and was running his tongue in teasing circles around the head. And he was looking up at Harry, the intent in his gaze unmistakable.

"I want you," Harry said. "Severus. Severus, _please_."

He couldn’t help it. As Severus took him further in his mouth, working his mouth around Harry’s hard prick, Harry thrust his hips forward. It was so hot, so wet, so tight … it was absolutely perfect.

_Too_ perfect.

"Severus, stop, please," Harry forced out. "Don’t want to come yet."

Once upon a time Harry could have come right then and then been up for another go by the time Severus’ cock touched his arse, but those days were gone. Harry didn’t mind, not really. It allowed him time to really savour the near sinful sensation of Severus’ ministrations.

"How do you want to come?" Severus asked, releasing Harry’s cock with a soft _pop_.

"I want you in me," Harry said. "I want you on top of me and I want you to pound into me until we both come."

"I believe that can be arranged," Severus said. He stood up and kissed Harry fiercely, guiding him to the bed. "Salazar, I’ve missed this."

"Me too," Harry said, falling back onto the mattress. "Fuck, Severus, I missed you so much."

Severus kissed him again, longer this time. Harry could feel himself melting with pleasure. He was weightless, boneless, and he wanted nothing more than to be even closer to Severus.

"And I, you," Severus said. He reached one long arm out to the bedside table and pulled out a familiar jar of lubricant. "You have no idea how many nights I dreamed of this. I never thought I’d see you like this again, but the smallest part of me couldn’t help but keep hope…"

"Not so small," Harry said, dipping his fingers into the jar and helping Severus slick his cock. "Nothing small about this at all."

Severus snorted. "You’re impossible. Here I am, attempting to make an effort to keep my softer emotions close to the surface, and you’re making cock jokes."

"Nothing soft about it either," Harry teased, and laughed when Severus growled and kissed him again. "Mmm. Fuck, Severus. How does it still feel so good?"

"I suppose it’s the way it was meant to happen," Severus said. He dipped his fingers into the lubricant and then worked them in Harry’s opening, earning a keening cry as he prepared him. "Oh, yes, Harry. Look at you. Beautiful, hard, writhing beneath me. Mine."

"Yes," Harry agreed, pushing back on Severus’ fingers. "Mine."

"Fuck, Harry," Severus whispered. "I can’t wait to be inside of you."

"Do it then," Harry said. "Now."

"Are you –"

" _Yes_ , Severus. _Now._ "

Fortunately, Harry didn’t need to repeat himself. Severus lined his cock up with Harry’s hole and slowly pushed in. Harry drew a sharp breath, briefly wondering if his impatience had gotten the best of him. It had been, after all, many years since he’d been taken this way, and even though Severus had shown the utmost care in stretching him, there was still a burn. But then Severus took his cock in his hand and kissed him, distracting him from the ache. Soon the gasps Harry was releasing were for an entirely different reason.

"Yes, Severus! More. Please."

"More what?" Severus asked, slowly thrusting in and out.

"More … everything. Please."

"My Harry," Severus said, moving faster. "Fuck. You feel so good around my cock. So hot. So tight."

"Even better than I – ah, _fuck_ – remembered," Harry said. "Come on, Severus. _Please_. I need it.

"Need what?" Severus’ voice was harsh, and he was nearly grunting with the effort of pounding into Harry.

"Need your cock," Harry said. "Need _you_."

"Yes, that’s it," Severus said. "Stroke your cock, like that. Harder. Come for me, Harry. Now."

Harry was never one to refuse an order. He frantically fisted his cock, feeling pleasure build in his balls. A few seconds later he came with a sharp cry, Severus’ name on his lips. Severus groaned and thrust in one, two, three more times before his body stilled and then shuddered, shooting his own release deep inside Harry. Gasping, he collapsed on Harry’s chest.

Harry stroked his hair, sore and sweaty and more content than he could remember being in a long time. This wasn’t simply nostalgia clouding his judgement. Severus had always been an exceptional lover, and what they had just shared had been … magical. It was beautiful and intimate and perfect. Harry couldn’t remember ever feeling as much at one as he did this very moment, not even before their break up.

"Salazar," Severus said, slowly pulling out and easing onto his side. He did not, however, loosen his hold on Harry. "You are a wonder."

"I might say the same thing of you," Harry said, pressing his lips to the tip of Severus’ nose. "I’d nearly forgotten it could feel like that."

"It was better," Severus said. "Even better."

"Yeah," Harry said, cuddling close. "Definitely."

Severus stroked Harry’s hair absently. "I couldn’t help but notice … that is … please realise I am not asking this out of prurient curiosity, as I know it’s truly no business of mine, but I’m thinking of your comfort."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You were rather … tight," Severus said, his voice clipped. "And I realise we were rather rough towards the end. If you haven’t … _been with_ many people in the years we were apart, I know I should have taken extra care. I do have several potions that could help."

"Ah," Harry said. He'd wondered if Severus would ask this. There was no sense in being anything less than 100 percent truthful, not this time. "Well, there hasn’t been anyone else."

Severus’ eyebrows shot up. "Nobody at all?"

Harry shook his head. "I told you I became a hermit. I rarely leave my cottage, and the only people who’ve visited me are Ron and Hermione. And, to be completely honest, I haven’t really felt the desire to." He paused. He knew he’d probably regret asking this question, but he couldn’t help himself. "How about you? Did you … have anybody?"

Severus sighed. "In a manner of speaking."

Harry felt his heart race. "Malfoy?"

"What? No!" Severus closed his eyes. When he re-opened them, his expression was blank, closed off. Harry hadn’t seen him look like that in quite some time. "Once a year, on my birthday, I employ a … companion for the evening."

"A … you hire a prostitute?" Harry asked, shocked.

"Yes," Severus said. For the first time that evening he looked deliberately away from Harry. "It was very much a business transaction. Some poor sod received a room for the night, and I was able to fulfil certain needs."

"You paid for sex," Harry said, still in disbelief.

"Sex, and penance," Severus said. "I always requested somebody who possessed certain physical characteristics. And, as you may expect, I was always disappointed, as no matter how messy the hair or how green the eyes, they were never the person I wanted to be with. And I spent the night remembering exactly what I had lost. It was more of a birthday punishment than a present to myself."

"On your birthday," Harry said. "Wait, the first committee meeting was on your birthday. Does that mean you –"

"No," Severus interrupted. "It hardly seemed worth it. I had seen you in the flesh. It hardly seemed worth it to try to replicate those memories. And I knew the pain I'd feel that night would be far more than even a hardened masochist such as myself could bear."

"You didn’t seem happy to see me," Harry said.

"I wasn’t," Severus said. "To see you that close to me, to still see the anger and grief and pain in your eyes directed at me … I couldn’t have punished myself any more if I tried."

"Wow," Harry said. "Wow."

"I realise this is not the ideal pillow talk for our first time together again," Severus said. "And I likely should have told you earlier. You have every reason to be disgusted with me."

"I’m not disgusted with you," Harry said quickly. And he wasn’t. How could he be? He, more than anyone, knew exactly Severus had gone through. He knew what the war had done to him. Who was Harry, who had hidden away from the world for fear of exploding from fatal memories, to judge Severus for needing a touch of human contact? Who was he to judge him for coping with his guilt the way he knew how?

Really, he just felt terribly, terribly sad. For the first time since his initial outrage, he was furious with Molly Weasley. Not for necessarily robbing Severus and Harry of twenty years of a relationship – Harry realised now that if he and Severus had been more open and honest with each other, she likely would never have succeeded in tearing them apart. But Severus had _needed_ Harry, just as much as Harry had needed him. And that, perhaps, was the saddest thing of all.

"I’m not disgusted with you," Harry repeated, because Severus still looked rather doubtful, as though he expected Harry to throw him out of his own bed any second. "But I’m worried. Malfoy told me when I left, you nearly killed yourself. Is that true?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "Draco always exaggerates the situation."

"Severus."

"I suppose taken at the most basic level he was correct, but not likely in the way you’re thinking," Severus said. "After I said goodbye to you that morning, I went to the shop, but didn’t open the doors. Instead I mostly threw things – cauldrons, stirrers, bottles – without a care for what they were. Naturally that led to some rather toxic combinations. Draco stopped by, simply by chance, and saw me overcome by fumes. While I’m certain I would have been fine, Draco did save me from a potentially lengthy stay at St Mungo’s."

Harry exhaled. It did somewhat assuage his fear that Severus had been suicidal following their separation, but he still didn’t much like the fact that Malfoy had been right. Perhaps Malfoy had a flair for dramatics, but Severus also had a tendency to understate dangerous situations, and he knew Severus had very likely had been near death that day.

"I wish I had fought you," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "I wish I had made you tell me what was wrong."

"It wouldn’t have made a difference," Severus said. "I was certain that what I was doing was the right thing. I never would have listened to you. I knew you’d be hurt initially, but I absolutely believed in the long run you’d be better off. It wasn’t until years later I’d learned that was not the case, and by then I thought I had lost any right to speak to you."

Harry buried his head in the crook of Severus’ shoulder and breathed in his scent. Severus’ arm came around to hold him close.

"The truth is, Harry, I’m far from all right myself. I needed you. You gave me a sense of purpose. You are the only thing in my adult life who has given me a desire to hope for some sort of a future. And with you gone…"

"Neither of us were better off," Harry said.

"No," Severus agreed. "I suppose not."

"I’m not leaving this time," Harry said fiercely. "I won’t. This is it."

Severus pressed his lips to the top of Harry’s head. "It is. I swear."

And for the rest of the night, they held each other, tightly, protectively, lest the world attempt to once again pull them apart.

* * *

The next few weeks passed in a blissful haze. While neither Harry nor Severus wanted to rush their renewed relationship, it still astounded Harry how easily everything seemed to fall into place. He split his time between his cottage and Severus’ house, spending most of his days writing and his evenings… well. Things _were_ proceeding quite nicely.

He was nearing his deadline to send Angela his manuscript, but Harry wasn’t worried. He’d been somewhat concerned that his happiness would stunt his creativity, but he’d been happily surprised to see the opposite was true. The words simply flowed from his quill, eager to have their story told. Harry was still nervous about revealing such an intimate story to the world, but he was also excited beyond belief. More than anything he’d ever published, this was _his_ story, and he wanted his readers to love it.

He still hadn’t shown Severus, however. While he knew Severus would appreciate anything he had written, Harry didn’t want him to read it until it was as perfect as it possibly could be. Severus understood and never pressured him, although Harry could tell he was quite curious.

And so, on one Tuesday morning, the day before the 20th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry made a trip into town, tucked the completed manuscript into a stamp-covered envelope, and mailed it off to Angela, and then went straight to Hogwarts for one of the committee’s final events.

"You’re here early," Severus said.

"So are you." Harry kissed Severus’ cheek. There was nobody else in the corridor, but it still felt rather daring and risqué.

"I’m always early," Severus said.

"Not always," Harry said, and reached down to cup Severus’ prick.

Severus’ eyes widened. "That is a cruel trick, Potter. You do realise we’re in the middle of the school with a meeting to attend in ten minutes."

"Then it’s a good thing we both came early," Harry said. He grabbed Severus by the wrist and tugged him into an empty classroom, then locked the door behind them.

He wasted no time. Hastily, he dropped to his knees and pulled Severus’ cock out from his robes, swallowing it immediately to the root. Severus threw back his head and groaned; deep-throating Severus was a skill that Harry had re-acquired rather quickly, especially after he remembered just how much Severus loved it.

Oh, yes. This was worth it for all the breathy moans Severus was allowing to escape. Harry took out his own erection and began stroking it rapidly. Normally he’d want to make this last, but their time was short.

"That’s it, Harry," Severus moaned. "Look at you. On your knees, sucking me off, touching my cock… oh, _fuck_!"

The expletive was Harry’s only warning. In an instant Severus was coming, shooting his release into Harry’s mouth. Harry swallowed it all eagerly, desperate to taste every last drop. So intent was he on lapping up every last trace that he barely noticed his own climax spilling over his hand.

"Merlin," Severus said, pulling Harry up for a deep kiss. "You’ll be the death of me yet."

"Can’t have that," Harry teased. "I’ll stop all sorts of prurient behaviour immediately."

"Absolutely not," Severus growled, and kissed him again.

"We’ll begin as soon as Snape and Potter arrive," came a loud, peevish voice from outside the room.

"Damn," Harry muttered, tucking Severus back into his robes before adjusting his own. "Guess we’ll have to continue this later."

"Later," Severus agreed. He leaned in and kissed Harry once more, and then they exited the classroom together.

They didn’t have to go far. Apparently the committee didn’t even go into the staff room to discuss the day’s events, and instead they were waiting in the corridor right outside the classroom. "Ah, there you are," Percy said. He frowned. "What were you doing in there? We never meet in those rooms."

"None of your business," Severus snarled. "Get on with it."

"Well, I --"

"Weasley, now is not the time," McGonagall said. "We have someplace to be in six minutes."

"Very well," Weasley said. "As I was saying to the others who were here on time, we are about to view the mural the students created. I repeat," he said, and looked straight at Severus, who glared back, "the _students_ created. Please do not expect the work of a professional artist, and keep any constructive criticism to yourself until the committee reconvenes."

Severus rolled his eyes. "I’m not about to tell some entitled spotty-faced teenager they’re the next Van Gogh simply as to not bruise their ego."

"Then you don’t need to say anything at all," Percy said.

Severus crossed his arms.

"We also have a special surprise," Percy continued. "Headmistress McGonagall, would you like to explain, since you’ve been working so closely with Mr Creevey?"

Harry froze. _Colin, being carried into the great hall by Neville and Oliver, his camera still dangling from around his neck. His neck, that was bent at that awful, unnatural angle._ He drew a sharp breath, feeling his heartbeat increase. Even Severus’ discreet touch at the small of his back did nothing to calm him.

"As we all know," McGonagall said, "Colin Creevey had a passion for photography. Even at the Battle of Hogwarts, he carried his camera around with him. His father, in honour of his memory, had his last roll of film developed. He has now donated the photographs to Hogwarts, where we will keep them on display year-round as tribute to his memory."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry whispered. He could feel his knees buckling beneath him. Merlin, he was a fool to think he’d been doing better. All it took was one reminder, one simple reminder, and he felt he was on the verge of collapse. "Oh fuck, oh fuck."

"Shh," Severus whispered. "I’m behind you."

Harry shook his head. "Are we going to see –"

"The exhibit will be on permanent display here at Hogwarts, making its debut at the ball this weekend. But if you’ll follow me, you’ll able to view it before the public first sees it. I supervised the installation this morning, and I have to say, it’s a very moving work."

The rest of the group moved to follow Minerva, but Harry grabbed Severus’ hand and stayed behind. "I can’t," he said urgently. "Merlin, Severus, can you imagine? Colin’s last roll of film! What if he captured – oh, fuck."

"Minerva would never allow a photo to be displayed of a former student being killed," Severus said quietly.

"But the battle," Harry said. "Severus, I already see it in my head, I see it all the time. But at least if it’s in my head I can tell myself that maybe it didn’t all actually happen, maybe I’m exaggerating parts of it in my head. But in photographs…"

"You don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to," Severus said. "We can stay behind."

"No," Harry said firmly. "I can’t … I can’t keep living like this, Severus. It happened twenty years ago. I need to face it."

"Very well," Severus said. "Shall we follow?"

They trailed behind the rest of the group, heading down the corridor, up three flights of stairs, through a secret passage hidden behind a statue of Ulric the Ugly, back down a moving staircase that navigated them towards the west end of the castle, down a winding corridor, and then into the third door on the left.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

The first photograph that greeted him was of Colin and his brother Dennis offering shaky smiles to the camera, waving meekly. It was next to another photograph of an older man that Harry presumed to be their father, looking very grim in a rundown, desolate house. Then one of Dennis reading a book while crouched in the corner, just the tip of his wand sticking out of his pocket.

"As you will recall, since the Creeveys were Muggle-born, they were not allowed to attend Hogwarts during the year of the battle," McGonagall said.

Harry turned towards Severus. He was stoic, his face frozen in grim lines, and Harry knew he, too, was remembering that dreadful year all too vividly.

"Colin took several pictures during that time," McGonagall continued. "But his father said he lost a great deal of his passion for it while they were in hiding. However, Colin did have his camera on him at the Battle of Hogwarts, and took many powerful shots. I will admit that these photographs are quite difficult to view, especially for those of us who were at the battle. But I do believe they are an invaluable gift for future generations, so they may see just how valiantly our heroes fought."

Harry stepped forward to view the photographs, buoyed by the knowledge that Severus was standing right behind him. Still, even as Harry looked at each tiny scene, held safely at bay behind a staid black picture frame, he was brought back to that day, each photograph igniting a memory that threatened to consume him entirely.

Hogwarts on fire.

Bellatrix with her wand raised over her head, cackling with glee.

A scene of rubble and chaos, no faces visible, but dozens of streaks of green and red lights.

Acromantulas scurrying in the halls, Greyback charging up a flight of stairs, young schoolchildren with looks of fear and determination upon their faces, pointing their wands with more intent than they ever had in any of their classes.

"He captured it all," Harry whispered. "It’s so real."

"Creevey did possess a great gift for photography," Severus said. His voice was flat, but Harry knew how greatly he was affected by the scenes before them. It was impossible not to be.

"Colin captured both fear and bravery in his photographs," McGonagall said. "Two emotions in great abundance at the Battle of Hogwarts. But the artists working on the mural you’ll see to your right endeavoured to capture yet another: hope."

Harry turned towards the wall McGonagall was gesturing towards. He had to admit that the students who had worked on the portrait had done a rather impressive job. The painting was startlingly realistic, painted in vivid colours with magnificent imagery. It was hard to believe they weren’t there to witness it.

He walked closer to view it more closely. There he was, his wand outstretched, Ron and Hermione running behind him, united in battle. There was Trelawney, hurling her crystal ball through the air as a weapon. And there… there was Severus, and Nagini, and Severus’ neck was bleeding and he was clinging to the wall, attempting to remain upright …

Harry wasn’t even consciously aware of what was happening. All he knew was that every cell in his body seemed to be pulsating with more energy than his skin could contain. A great crack appeared down the centre of the painting, and he was shaking, crying, unable to stop the memory that the mural was triggering in his mind, the memory that was now replaying over and over: Severus, _his_ Severus, so very nearly taken from him far too soon. He was dimly aware of Severus holding him, of Hermione repeating his name over and over, of the two of them pulling him away from the room.

He didn’t know how much time had passed by the time he was once again aware of his surroundings. Somehow they had landed in Minerva’s office, with Harry in a chair in front of the fireplace and Severus kneeling on the floor in front of him, clasping his hand. Hermione was nearby, pouring water from a pitcher into a glass.

"I’m a nutter," Harry said, his voice sounding hoarse in his ears. "An absolute nutter. What was I thinking?"

"You’re no such thing," Hermione said, bringing him the glass. "I have to say, I truly don’t know if it’s wise to have such an exhibit in place. So much horror displayed in one room. Anybody would be upset."

"Yeah, but I didn’t see anybody else having a breakdown over it," Harry said. "Fuck, I’m going to be in the papers again, aren’t I? They haven’t had a good story about me in ages. Now they can write about how I really am mad."

"They’ll do no such thing," Severus said in a deadly voice. "Believe me, Harry. Nobody inside of that room would dare speak of what happened. Not if they value their lives."

"That's not your responsibility, Severus. Nobody else should have to clean up my messes." He shook his head. "But that's not something I can do right now. I can’t do _any_ of this. I thought maybe with … with things going well again everything would be bearable again. But it’s not. When I’m here, all I see is death. I can’t take that, Severus. I can’t."

"What are you saying?" Severus asked.

"I can’t stay here," Harry said. "This isn’t my world anymore. Maybe my life in Connemara isn’t normal, but it’s mine. I have control over my sanity there. If I have a bad day, it's contained. I don't have to worry about making a scene, or destroying property, or what people will say if they see me lose it. No. It’s just all too overwhelming here."

"Then I’ll come with you," Severus said. "I swore to you I wouldn’t leave you again, Harry. I’m not breaking that promise now. Not again."

"No," Harry said. It was excruciating to say the word, when all he wanted was to disappear with Severus and never re-emerge from his cottage. And he knew how much it killed Severus to utter such words in front of Hermione, and he loved him even more because he did it despite his immensely private nature. But while he did appreciate the devotion, there was simply no way he could allow Severus to make that sacrifice. "You have your own life here. A successful one. You deserve more than to be the caretaker of a washed-up boy hero who lives in his head."

Severus clasped Harry’s hand more tightly. "Harry. You’re in shock. But this is just one moment. We can work past this. We have before."

"Not this time," Harry said, and tore his hand away. Then quickly, before Severus or Hermione could stop him, he grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the mantel and threw it into the fireplace.

He needed to go home.

* * *

Harry didn’t go to bed that night.

He didn’t seek refuge in his office or outside on his favourite rock. He didn’t drown his sorrows in whiskey. He didn’t consciously starve himself, but he had no appetite, so there was no sense in eating.

Instead, he simply sat, staring, unseeing, in front of the fire.

He had, of course, closed up his Floo and strengthened the wards on his home. Severus, Ron, and Hermione had all tried to come through multiple times. The letters they all sent sat, unopened, on his kitchen table.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them. In fact, more than anything, he wished they were here with him right now.

But he simply wasn’t ready.

Ron and Hermione would take on the pseudo-parental role they tended to adopt whenever Harry was having a rough time of it. It was comforting at times, yes, but right now Harry felt so incredibly _raw_ that he simply couldn’t take it.

And Severus …

If Severus came, Harry would beg him never to leave. And he knew Severus likely would agree.

That simply wasn’t fair.

So instead Harry sat in front of the fire, and remembered.

He remembered Fred Weasley, his eyes alit with mischief as he swung his Beater’s bat over his shoulder and walked out to the Quidditch pitch.

He remembered Remus Lupin, handing him a piece of chocolate after helping him learn how to fight off the Dementors.

He remembered Lavender Brown gazing into the tea leaves in Divination class, Nymphadora Tonks changing her nose to resemble a pig’s snout, and Colin Creevey nearly blinding him with his camera’s flash.

At some point, Harry finally managed to stand up and drink a damn glass of water. He was exhausted and overwhelmed. He was still struggling with two decades’ worth of grief and anxiety.

But he was alive.

And what’s more, his fallen friends deserved more than a hero who wallowed in his own misery at a time specially dedicated to honour their sacrifice.

Which was how Harry found himself back at Hogwarts the following night. He walked into the Great Hall, a hooded cloak shielding his face, and stepped into the crowd of students, professors, and visitors, all there to remember those they had lost. The room was illuminated only by candles, and McGonagall stood at the front of the room, reading aloud a list of the dead.

"Vincent Crabbe, 18 years old. Colin Creevey, 16 years old."

Harry felt a touch, barely perceptible, at the small of his back, and he knew without looking it was Severus.

"Juno Devine, 34 years old. Fiona Finnegan, 12 years old. Flora Finnegan, 15 years old. Frank Finnegan, 42 years old."

Harry closed his eyes, feeling tears stream down his cheeks. So many they had lost. So many whose names he had memorised, whom he felt he knew from the frequency he recalled them, but had never actually met in life. And for what? So many people killed, so many families destroyed, all because of an egomaniac with a wand.

One by one, each name was read aloud. Harry was nearly shaking by the time they reached the end of the alphabet, but he refused to stumble this time. He owed it to them to remain standing.

"Let us raise our lit wands in their honour," McGonagall said. "As tribute to all those who lost their lives twenty years ago."

Slowly, hundreds of people moved as one solemn body, and everybody in the room raised their wands in the air. The room was no longer as dark as dusk, but now cast in a warm, inviting glow. For the first time that night, Harry turned to look at Severus. He glanced back at him, nodded briefly, and then turned back to stare up at his upraised wand.

But gradually, it was no longer the wands that were lighting up the room, but rather the usual lights, and the crowd slowly began to filter out of the Great Hall. Harry extinguished his wand and shoved it into his robes, and turned on his heel, anxious to leave before he was recognised.

"Harry, wait."

Harry froze. "I can’t right now, Severus. Please."

"I know," Severus said, and placed something in Harry’s hand. "I understand. But I want you to have something."

Harry looked down at his palm. It was a Snitch, but not just any Snitch. _I open at the close._ "Where did you –"

"You left it at my house when you moved out," Severus said. "I’ve kept it on my person ever since. It served as a reminder – of you, of the war, of what and whom we had lost."

Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away from the Snitch. He could still remember it opening, revealing the Resurrection Stone. He’d talked with his parents, with Sirius and Remus. They had given him the strength and courage he’d needed to defeat Voldemort and to finally end the war.

And now Severus was giving it back to him.

"This too shall pass, Harry," Severus said. "You are the strongest man I’ve ever known."

"I’m a coward," Harry said. "I’m a grown man who falls to pieces at the thought of his own memories."

"And yet you continue to face them every day," Severus said. "That, Harry, is the very definition of bravery."

Harry shook his head. "I’m not the same person I once was."

"No, you’re not," Severus agreed. "You’ve faced far more in your life than you have any right to. But you will make it through this, Harry. I promise you." He took Harry’s hand and closed it over the Snitch. "Take this with you." Then, with a final squeeze to Harry’s hand, he was gone.

* * *

Ron and Hermione stopped by the next day and, much to his own surprise, Harry let them through. They both gave Harry close hugs, and then Hermione hurried into the kitchen to grab bowls for the pho they had brought.

"Mum’s watching Hugo," Ron said, taking a seat on the couch. "So we’ll be here all night. Hope you have blankets. It’s a bit chilly here. Don’t see what you get out of living on the water, anyway. What if there’s a tidal wave?"

Harry snorted. "That hasn’t really been a problem yet."

It was actually rather nice being out here, just the three of them. They joked and laughed and teased Ron for still being utterly hopeless with chopsticks. Life was easy with Ron and Hermione. For a few hours, Harry felt like he had back when they were still kids, laughing over Exploding Snap in the Gryffindor common room.

Of course, eventually it became impossible to ignore the obvious.

"McGonagall managed to repair the mural," Hermione said carefully. "She also had a conversation with the artists, encouraged them to be less … graphic with the scenes they chose to depict."

Harry reached for the Snitch in his pocket and gripped it tightly. "That’s good."

"Yes," Hermione said. She paused. "Harry, you know Ron and I love you very much."

"I don’t need an intervention, Hermione," Harry interrupted. "I know I’m nuts."

"That’s not what I’m saying," Hermione snapped. "If you would allow me to speak a word, thank you very much."

"Better let her, mate," Ron said. "She’s been rehearsing this for days."

Harry sighed. "Fine. What is it you want to say?"

Hermione handed him a small card. "I think this man could help you."

"You want me to see a shrink?" Harry asked.

"He’s a Squib who provides support to both Muggles and wizards," Hermione said. "He’s very discreet and has a remarkable reputation. He specialises in grief counselling and related disorders. He helped a great number of people after the war."

Harry shook his head. "Hermione, this is very sweet of you, but I just don’t think this is going to help. Have you ever heard of somebody still being afraid of things that happened twenty years ago? I know how pathetic that is. I don’t need to talk to somebody every week who’s going to remind me of how weak I am, that I can’t even stand thinking about the deaths of people I didn’t even know."

"It doesn’t make you weak or pathetic," Hermione said quietly. "And I think more people suffer from similar issues than you think. But they, like you, keep things private. You went through a great deal, Harry, and you never truly had a chance to grieve. You just bounded straight into the next stage of your life."

"Yeah, and a lot of good that did," Harry said. "Never even made it as an Auror. And what do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty years out here if I’m not grieving?"

"Existing," she said. "Making do. Continuing to try to be the Chosen One in your own way."

"Hermione – "

"When you killed Voldemort, what were you expecting would happen, Harry?" Ron asked. "Did you think that by now you’d be married with three kids, waving them off to Hogwarts? Standing there waiting for the Hogwarts Express with your wife, content with your life, thinking all was well?"

Harry shrugged. "Wouldn’t be a bad thing. Other than the wife bit, I suppose."

"It wouldn’t be bad, no," Ron said. "But that’s just a fantasy. It’s not real life. Real people grieve, and hurt, and remember. It’s part of being human. And you, Harry. You’ve been entirely too self-sufficient for far too long. It’s okay to admit you need a little extra help. And as much as Hermione and I and even Snape would love to help, sometimes we’re not enough."

"An objective voice," Hermione said gently. "Somebody who has experience in these areas. He’s seen countless other people just like you, Harry. It’s not just the Boy Who Lived who has to battle his memories."

Harry rolled the Snitch in his hand. "I don’t – I wouldn’t know what to say. How do I even begin?"

"Wherever it makes sense," Hermione said. "Think of it as writing one of your stories. How do you know where to begin the action in your novels?"

"You make it sound so easy," Harry muttered. "Do you know how long it takes me to write those damn novels? It takes fucking work."

"I know this will be much, much harder," Hermione said. "While you have the benefit of already knowing the entire story, it’s must more personal. But you can do it. We believe in you."

"She’s right," Ron said.

"Just this small first step," Hermione pleaded. "That’s all you need to start off."

Harry rubbed his thumb over the Snitch. He still half-expected it to open again, to show him that this was the close, to give him some sort of sign that his time of grieving was coming to an end and that his new life was ready to begin. But of course, it remained tightly shut.

"I’ll think about it," Harry said finally.

"Good," Ron said, slapping his hands on his thighs. "That’s all we wanted to hear. Now, do you have anything for pudding? I’m starving."

Harry smiled weakly and followed his friends into the kitchen.

Perhaps, one day, all _would_ be well.

* * *

Harry was just stepping out of the shower after saying goodbye to Ron and Hermione the next morning when he heard an odd, vaguely repetitive banging at his front door. Throwing on his dressing gown, he hurried down the stairs and flung open the door.

He immediately had to duck to avoid the apple hurtling towards his head.

"Angela! What are you doing?"

"Your house is trying to kill me!" Angela said, storming in.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, tightening the sash on his dressing gown. It wasn’t the first time Angela had arrived unexpectedly and found him in only his dressing gown, and the last time had been a rather embarrassing situation for both of them.

Well, for Harry. Angela didn’t really seem capable of embarrassment. But she could have been, if she were the normal type of woman who was at least slightly uncomfortable with seeing her client's balls while pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Every time I knocked at the door, it shocked me," she said. She held out her hand, which looked like it had been sunburnt. "Look at that! Have you had this place tested?"

"Oh, the air does weird things around here," Harry said, making a note to lessen the wards around the cottage as soon as Angela was distracted. "Sorry about that."

"Well, you should be." She strode into the kitchen and set her oversized purse down on the table. "Harry Potter, I fucking hate you."

"Because of the house?" Harry asked. "I know it’s weird, but –"

"It’s not the bloody house, you idiot," she said. She opened her purse and pulled out a heavy stack of papers, then dropped them onto the table with a loud _thud_. "What the fuck were you thinking in sending me this?"

Harry felt sick. "You didn’t like it."

"Don’t make me state the obvious, Harry. This story? This manuscript you’ve been keeping from me all these years, all these years when I’ve been asking you to give me something _more_? This is _brilliant_. And I am so fucking pissed you hid it from me."

Harry blinked. "Thanks?"

"Now don’t get me wrong. It needs a bit of work," Angela said, sitting down and taking out a pen from her purse. "You tend to ramble a bit when the prose grows more intense. It’s an interesting effect, but we need to contain it a bit more for it to really work. Now –"

"Wait a second," Harry said. "You really liked it?"

Angela rolled her eyes. "Harry. This is by _far_ the best thing you’ve ever written, and you know it. And yet instead of telling me about it in the very beginning, you chose to torment me by pretending you didn’t have a unique story left in you. Honestly. I should have you horsewhipped."

Harry shook his head. "So you’ll publish it?"

"Of course we’re publishing it," Angela said. "Right before the holidays, ideally. Oh, it would make a perfect story for Christmas. Tragedy and fear and hope, a love story the common person can only dream of attaining … it’s perfect."

"Well, that’s –"

"Harry. I _cried_. Do you know the last time I cried? Never. My mum made me see a therapist for a year after I laughed at Little Nell’s death. I always mocked women who established a market for waterproof mascara. And even I shed a tear for this Sheridan Savage and Patrick Harper."

Then Angela Atwater did the most incredible thing.

For the first time since Harry had met her more than a decade ago, her face softened, and she gently took his hand.

"He’s real, isn’t he?" she asked softly. "This Sheridan?"

Harry nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah."

"Well, you hold onto him," she said, her voice returning to its usual matter-of-fact tone. She thumbed through the stack of papers. "He’s good for you, which makes him good for me. Now – "

"Hold on," Harry said. "What makes you think I’m Patrick?"

"I know you," Angela said. "What’s more, I know how you write. You’re always in your stories. But in this one, you _were_ the story. So very meta."

"But –"

"Harry, I could go on and on about how courageous this work was and how brilliant and personal and daring and how it’s going to set the world on fire, or we could buckle down now and begin editing so we can have this on the best-seller list by Christmas. Which would you prefer?"

Harry sighed. "Mind if I change out of my dressing gown first?"

"Go ahead. I need to make myself a cup of tea, anyway."

"Make yourself at home," Harry said, and moved towards the stairs. "Oh, and I’m still not doing a media tour," he called out as he headed upstairs.

"Negotiations come after editing," Angela said, not looking away from the teakettle.

Harry grinned and bounded up the rest of the stairs, feeling as victorious as a knight in battle.

* * *

Harry sat on his couch, dressed in the nicest set of robes he owned – which, to be quite honest, were not very nice, as he didn’t have much use for robes in general these days – and toyed with the Snitch in his hands.

Right now, hundreds of people were dancing in the Great Hall, drinking champagne and listening to speeches about all those who had been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, a day of death at the school that had long been presumed to be the safest place on the planet.

Harry’s friends would be there, both the ones he’d seen just the other day and the ones he hadn’t seen in decades but would still take an Unforgivable for. So would his former professors and colleagues, people who’d been at the Academy with him, some who had succeeded, and others who had quit just as he had.

There would be people he’d never met before, who’d moved to Britain or had been born since he’d been away. Countless students who now ran down the corridors he once called home would be there, attempting to spike the punch with whatever alcoholic beverage was in vogue amongst the youth set these days.

And his lover would be there as well.

Yes, of that he was certain – both that Severus was his lover, and that he would be at Hogwarts that night. Because he wanted to honour those who had died, even if it was at something as ridiculous as a Ministry ball, but also because he wanted to see if Harry would turn up.

Harry didn’t want to go.

Quite truthfully, it was one of the very last places he’d want to be, second only to an actual re-enactment of the Battle of Hogwarts.

But he needed to go, if only for a minute, to prove …

What, exactly?

That he was able to honour his commitments all the way through. That he wouldn’t be scared off by the ghosts haunting his memory. That he wasn’t going to continue letting his loved ones down.

That he wasn’t giving up. Not just yet, anyhow.

And so, drawing a deep breath and his courage, he tucked the Snitch back into his robes and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace.

* * *

The ball was already in full swing by the time Harry arrived. He had been half afraid that he’d walk into the Great Hall and the music would screech to a halt as everybody turned to stare at him like in one of those stupid Muggle films, but fortunately that was not the case. In fact, nobody even really seemed to notice he was there. Perhaps all his time away had finally given him the anonymity he’d always been craving.

"Well, if it isn’t Harry Potter."

Or maybe not.

"Hello, Kings – I mean, Minister –"

Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head. "No, Kingsley’s fine. How are you, Harry? It’s been quite some time."

Oh, how to even begin to answer that question? When had exchanging simple pleasantries become so bloody complicated? Harry could feel his face burn with humiliation, bile rising in his throat …

But Kingsley only smiled kindly, understanding in his eyes. "Yes, I know. It’s a difficult time, isn’t it?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. It is."

"But I’ve heard you made invaluable contributions to the committee all year," Kingsley said, as though they hadn’t just been referring to the occasion of marking the deaths of so many of their friends and colleagues. "Minerva said we have you to thank for not making this a typical Ministry celebration."

Harry shrugged. "It was a group effort. I gave my opinion, just like anybody else."

"Yes, but your opinion was always one of the good ones." Kingsley eyed Harry speculatively. "It’s wonderful to see you again, Harry. I’d feared we might have lost you for a while."

"You kind of did," Harry said, smiling ruefully.

"Indeed," Kingsley said. "But I do hope that as you’re speaking in the past tense, that is, in fact, in the past?"

Harry didn’t say anything.

"You should come by my office sometime," Kingsley said. "We have much to discuss."

"I’m not looking for a job with the Ministry," Harry said quickly.

"Oh, I expect you’re not," Kingsley said. "But you’ll indulge an aging Minister of Magic looking to rekindle old friendships, won’t you?"

Harry laughed. "You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you. I wouldn’t exactly call you aging."

"Be that as it may, I still hope to see you again soon. I’ll let my secretary know to expect you." He nodded his head. "Enjoy yourself tonight, Harry."

Harry turned away, and immediately came face to face with the person he wanted to see most.

"Cosying up to the Minister already, are we?"

Harry grinned broadly, trying to disguise the fact that his heart was pounding wildly in his chest. "Severus."

Severus inclined his head. "I wasn’t certain I would see you here tonight."

"I couldn’t miss it," Harry said.

"Is that so?" Severus’ eyes seemed to bore directly into Harry’s soul, and Harry wondered if he was in fact practicing Legilimency.

"Yeah," Harry said. Of course, now that he was standing here in front of Severus, he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.

What was it Hermione had said about small steps?

Oh, that’s right.

To take them.

"Yeah," Harry repeated. "How else would I be able to ask you to dance?"

Ah, yes. It was absolutely worth it to do that, if only to see the look on Severus’ face. He was utterly gobsmacked, but clearly quite pleased.

"You realise this is a very public affair," Severus said. "You haven’t attracted much attention yet, but if you dance with me, you most certainly will."

"That doesn’t sound like a refusal," Harry said. "Come now. I promise not to step on your toes."

An honest-to-Merlin smile crossed over Severus’ face. "See that you don’t," he said, and took Harry in his arms. "I’ll be left with no choice but to hex you."

Severus led Harry out to the dance floor and the two of them settled into a slow, easy rhythm. They had never danced much in their relationship, not even at the beginning. They obviously hadn’t attended any Wizarding balls together, and neither of them had any desire to go out to some Muggle club just so they could sway along to popular songs of the day. They had danced a few times in the privacy of Severus’ home, but those incidents had quickly turned into dancing of a more horizontal variety.

But this? This was nice.

"People are watching," Severus murmured in Harry’s ear. "They all know it’s me you’re dancing with."

"Good," Harry said. As Severus led him around the floor, he caught sight of Draco Malfoy, who still didn’t look anywhere near as pleased to see him as other people in the room were. "Malfoy looks as approving as always."

"Is that why you wanted to dance?" Severus asked, sounding amused. "I've spoken with Draco. There’s no need for you to stake your claim."

"Well, it’s not the main reason, but it doesn’t hurt," Harry admitted. He ran a gentle thumb down the line of Severus' jaw. "You’re important to me. The most important person in my life, really. And I want people to know that." He smiled. "And I wanted to dance with you."

"And what would you say if I told you I wanted to kiss you right now?" Severus asked, his voice low.

"I would say that I very much think you should," Harry said.

It was as though time had ceased to exist. It wasn’t the most passionate kiss they’d ever shared, and it was a little too rough to be considered their most tender, but it definitely felt as though it was their most daring.

Nearly every witch and wizard in Britain was in the Great Hall at this moment, and a great number of them had their eyes on Harry as he kissed Severus Snape.

Harry had never felt more in control of his own life.

"I have something I want to show you," he said, his voice raspy. "Do you trust me?"

Severus blinked. "Harry, while it does appear you are in a rather affectionate mood, I hardly think here is the place to show me your … wand."

Harry grinned. "Not that, you prat. But will you come with me?"

Severus nodded, then kissed Harry one more time. "Always."

* * *

Harry was unaccountably nervous. It was a rather mundane act, inviting a lover into your home. Thousands of people likely did it every day. Hell, Severus had been in Harry’s old flat plenty of times, back when they had first attempted a relationship.

But this time was different.

"You’re only the fourth person who knows I live here," Harry said, watching Severus’ reaction. He appeared to be interested, but otherwise was giving nothing away. "The only other people who visit are Ron, Hermione, and my editor."

"Thank you for showing me," Severus said, running his hand over the mantel of the fireplace. "This cottage has been your sanctuary. I imagine you have a very personal connection with it, far beyond the master of a house."

Harry nodded. Truthfully, the cottage was even more than a sanctuary to him. For so many years, it had been so much more. It had been his protection, his family, his lover … it was simply not a place easily shared with others. Harry almost felt he’d be treating his beloved home with disrespect to bring in anybody who did not fully appreciate it – an impossible feat, he knew, for what rational person would understand just how critical this place was to Harry’s well-being? But still, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that Severus appeared to be treating the event with the reverence he had hoped for.

"It suits you," Severus said finally. "It’s exactly how I imagined it."

"You imagined –" A sudden thought occurred to Harry. "Did you know I lived here?"

"I was a double agent who anticipated the Dark Lord killing me," Severus said, a slight smile upon his face. "Of course I was able to ascertain where you were living, especially when you were so determined not to be found."

"But you never came," Harry said.

"Well, as you recall, I was quite certain you didn’t want to see me." Severus peered out one of the windows, apparently trying to get a better view of the water outside.

"But even in these past few months. These past few _days_. You could have."

"Indeed," Severus said. He turned around, facing Harry once more. "In fact, if you hadn’t appeared at Hogwarts tonight, I might have done just that."

"But?"

"This is your home, Harry. One you built entirely on your own in a time of great struggle. I had to wait to be invited in. Barging in, pounding at your door, demanding entrance when I had not yet earned the privilege, would have ultimately done me more harm than good."

And in that moment, Harry knew with utmost certainty that he and Severus would be together for a lifetime. Merlin, how had they already come so impossibly far? From the fiercest of adversaries to _this_? Not only did they share the bond that came only from shared traumatic experiences, but they _understood_ each other. They knew exactly what made the other tick, how the other thought, how the other needed to be loved. Matched with an undeniable sexual attraction and profound respect for each other, it was an unbreakable, untouchable bond that united them. Even two decades of hurt and misunderstandings couldn’t decimate that. This was, in fact, the only way it could have ended for either of them. Their fate was entirely unavoidable, and for that, Harry was profoundly grateful.

But still, there was more that needed to be said. Because while Harry knew they would continue to be drawn together time and time again, the last thing he wanted was another unnecessary separation brought about by yet another failure to communicate. They had managed to survive it once, but Harry didn't know what the damage would be if it happened again.

"You’re right," he said. "This _is_ my sanctuary. For nearly twenty years, this was the only place I felt safe, that I could trust myself, that I was even worthy of being alive. But now … I have that with you, too."

Severus reached for Harry’s hands and squeezed them tightly.

"But I’m not quite ready to give this up," Harry said, the words coming in a rush of air. "It sounds stupid, but it’s more than a home to me. And I know maybe it’s a security blanket and that’s not entirely healthy. I do hope that one day I’ll know with complete certainty that it’s simply my beloved home, and not a place I go to hide. But I’m not quite there yet. But when I’m with you, I feel like one day I might be. And so …" Harry drew a deep breath. "You’re welcome here. If you’d like. As often as you like."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "And if I said I’d like that to be forever?"

A small smile crept upon Harry’s face. "If you’d like."

"Well, it seems the fates have conspired for the two of us to be together that long anyway," Severus said, smirking. "There doesn’t seem to be any sense in fighting it. I do hate wasting energy on pointless things."

Now Harry couldn’t hold back his grin. "So do I. Especially when there are so many better ways we could be using that energy."

"Indeed," Severus purred. He brushed his lips down Harry’s neck. "My, my, Harry. Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you simply happy to see me?"

"A Snitch, actually," Harry said with a laugh. He pulled it out to show Severus. "You know, I kept thinking it would open up again, to show me that something was ending and it was a sign I’d know exactly what to do. I thought maybe that would happen, and then I’d wake up and be entirely normal and ready to start a healthy relationship and that would be that."

"But?"

"But then I realised that something doesn’t have to end just for something new to begin," Harry said. "And that’s okay. More than okay. It makes life interesting." He looked up at Severus. "So long as you can stand it. My still not being entirely normal, that is."

"I can stand a great many things," Severus said, unbuttoning Harry’s robes. "And I wouldn’t have you any other way. Except for, perhaps, on this rather appealing carpet in front of the fire. Hmm?"

"Mmm," Harry agreed, and wrapped his arms around Severus, allowing himself to be taken in a fierce, passionate kiss.

"Do you have any –"

"Of course," Harry said, and pulled a tube of lubricant out of the pockets of his robes. "It wasn’t just the Snitch that was bringing me luck."

"Lucky lubricant," Severus said. He took the tube, then continuing tugging Harry’s robes off. "Well, I’ve heard of odder superstitions."

"So then you won’t mind if tomorrow I set it out in a place of honour so we can all honour it appropriately?" Harry teased, making quick work of removing Severus’ robes as well.

"Well, tomorrow might be a bit hasty," Severus said, mouthing kisses down Harry’s chest. "I have great plans for this tube that should last us at least a week, and I fear I’m going to be far too busy to go out to buy more before then, especially given how wonderfully remote this cottage is."

"I – ahh," Harry sighed as Severus’ kisses dropped lower and lower, and finally surrendered, allowing Severus to pull him down to the soft, thick carpet.

There wasn’t much talking after that. Typically Harry enjoyed watching Severus lose control and loved hearing the filthy words that escaped from this usually restrained man’s mouth, but there was something exquisite, almost reverent, about tonight’s lovemaking. They moved perfectly in sync, matching each other’s movements. It was comfortable and exciting and familiar and intoxicating and Harry couldn’t get enough. This was his future – to be spent with a man who knew him, body and soul, and who loved him, _cherished_ him, in spite – or perhaps because – of it.

All too soon Harry was climaxing, calling out Severus’ name, and Severus followed not long after.

"Mmm," Harry said. Severus’ head was resting on his chest, and he took the opportunity to stroke his sweat-slickened hair. There seemed to be even more silver streaks in it now. Somehow, it suited him. "That was nice."

"Indeed," Severus said. "Although I expect we’ll have to move to a bed eventually, at least if we want to be able to move enough to do this again in the next 24 hours. My back isn’t what it once was."

Harry snorted. "Five more minutes?"

"I suppose," Severus said, and pressed his lips to Harry’s chest.

Harry smiled. Here they were, he and Severus, in the dénouement of their story. They had encountered tremendous obstacles, had been torn apart more than once, but now they had their moment. They were at peace. They had _earned_ this.

He breathed a sigh of contentment, but then paused when his eye caught sight of the Snitch, glistening in the firelight, a reminder of both the ghosts of their past and the hopes for their future.

No, their problems weren’t all entirely behind them. Harry had learned that much from writing his novels. If a story were to have any sense of realism, even if there was an optimistic ending, there needed to be that threat of unease, the potential for it all to fall apart again if those crucial pieces that made up the conflict of the work were once again jarred out of place. Happily-ever-after endings only made sense in fairy tales, and the love story he shared with Severus was definitely no Cinderella adaptation. They would always have issues to work through, not the least of which were the memories of the war. They would have fights and make-up sex and setbacks and victories. They would shout and bicker and challenge each other, and they would fall in love with each other over and over again.

And rather than scaring Harry, finally, it excited him. Thrilled him, even. Just as any good story did.

Yes, a million little climaxes. That’s where they would exist in the story of their lives together.

"What are you snickering about?" Severus asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing," Harry said. "Just thinking about how far we’ve come and how far we have to go. And all that in between."

"All that in between," Severus murmured. "Sounds dangerous."

"The best things usually are," Harry said, and pulled Severus up for a deep, toe-curling kiss.

Ah, yes.

This was most assuredly a story worth living.  


-The End-

  
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